


Love In Ashes

by NathanielCardeu



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Violence, Crossover, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Time Turner, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-11-14 12:13:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11207835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NathanielCardeu/pseuds/NathanielCardeu
Summary: Abraxas Malfoy was dead, as far as the Wizarding world was concerned, killed by Dragon Pox. The truth was that Abraxas was alive, attempting to cure the more serious disease he had been inflicted with by those that had murdered his wife.His quest for purification and revenge has taken him to an alternate dimension; a world destroyed by nuclear war and poisoned by radiation, ravaged by slavers and violent gangs, mutated animals and people. Inhabited by what remains of a nation, the fragments of humanity are trying to live in an irradiated wasteland.Hermione Granger lives a broken life, haunted by her past and the violence that makes up her present. Given the chance to escape, she allows others to commit a terrible sin in her name and, in doing so, finds herself indebted to the Malfoy family, forced to leave all she has known behind.In the broken wasteland of a post-apocalyptic England, these two damaged people find that their fates are bound together in ways neither of them could have imagined. Can they help to heal each other’s wounds, or will their damaged pasts stop them from finding what they have been searching for? Even if they find it, will they have the strength to hold onto it?





	1. Cover Art

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing! The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB.
> 
> The alternative historical details in this tale and inspiration for the setting belong to Bethesda Game Studios, Bethesda Softworks and ZeniMax Media, and the Fallout Series of games.
> 
> Chapter titles and lyrics belong to Lamb of God and are used without permission. They are an amazing band and their use here is with the greatest of respect! They are, at least in part, responsible for this story, and their music has inspired me repeatedly.
> 
> I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.
> 
> This tale is being written in response to Mistress Malfoy’s challenge (on Granger Enchanted) - from January 2011 I think lol
> 
> Word of warning... I haven't finished this one yet, and I worry that I may never finish it... It is very much a work in progress...  
> This story was originally a sequel to another story, but I now plan to incorporate that first tale into this one (as I'm not too happy with the original anymore, and feel it would be easier to do it this way, rather than pretty much rewrite it). This will leave a number of things unknown for now, referenced by the characters, but the plan is to try and clarify things as I go. Think of it as a bit of a mystery, but one that hopefully won't tax your brain too much! Also keep an eye on the tags, genres, and warnings... As I keep writing they are liable to change; already changed one relationship to a different one, as the muse fancied mixing things up a little... :)
> 
> ** Update (10/03/18) I am currently working on a fic that needs to be finished by June, so this is on hiatus until at least some point after that time. I apologise to anyone that is waiting for the next chapter, but the challenge comes first **
> 
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
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>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

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> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with "whisper" and I will appreciate it but not respond!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cover Art for the fic, created by the immensely talented Grey Mournings, over on the Granger Enchanted Survivors FB Group.
> 
> I can't tell you how happy I am with how this piece turned out, considering I gave her minimal direction and more of a brain fart of what the fic is about... Taking my waffles and my choice for Abraxas, and creating this masterpiece... Well, she's bloody good!
> 
> Also thank you to Julia, from the GE Survivors group for the help in getting this linked!


	2. Lies of Autumn

** Part 1: In the Beginning… **

 

I can feel your fear and weakness,

I see my own in the mirrors of your eyes.

Carved into a corner hopeless,

There’s death ahead and doom behind.

**_Broken Hands_ **

**_~ Lamb of God ~_ **

****

“The survivors, if any, would live in despair amid the poisoned ruins of a civilization that had committed suicide."

**~ President Jimmy Carter ~**

 

 

**Chapter 1 - Lies of Autumn**

 

_Step into this decay and experience dissolution_

_Crucified on a plank of cruelty_

_Crucified on a plank of apathy_

**_~ Lamb of God ~_ **

****

 

 **_Aachen_ ** **_, Germany_ ** **_– September 1944_ **

 

A lone bulb, its grey metal shade coated in dust and grime, flickered near the ceiling; its fitful light illuminated the curved, half-circle of the tunnel, the walls dripping with moisture from the humid atmosphere. In either direction the tunnel stretched, echoing with the sounds of far distant conversation and the bustle of a large number of people working. The light went out briefly, flickering as if on the verge of failure and then resumed its steady glow.

The light fell upon a man in the dark robes, hugging the edge of the tunnel and casting furtive looks in both directions. The man’s hair was long and blond, pulled back in a tight tail that hung below his shoulders. His grey eyes were hard and cold, set in a handsome face with a prominent, slightly hooked hose. With precise, quiet steps he stalked up the corridor, alert for the sound of approaching danger. In his hand he held a length of highly decorated, dark wood: his wand.

He was a spy for the Ministry of Magic in England, a wizard of great skill and power. His name was Mathias Malfoy.

His dark robes were illuminated at regular intervals, by other light bulbs, each one a flickering spear of brightness. Reaching a junction in the tunnel, he slowed, approaching it cautiously and checking the way was clear. Satisfied he continued across the open space, proceeding along his original course. Dark alcoves lined this section of tunnel, carrying power lines and water cables to feed the rooms hidden deeper within the complex.

Ducking into the alcove Mathias crouched, checking the pipes, searching for one in particular. The familiar steel tubing, an air vent, continued in this same direction: he was still on the right track.

The noise level in the vicinity increased gradually, the sound of booted feet echoing along the tunnel. It was a harsher sound, more urgent in the near silence. Mathias glanced back the way he came, seeing shadows thrown against the far wall; three, maybe four people approaching. With a flick of his wand he wrapped his magic about himself like a cape, a field of influence spreading out from his form; although not true invisibility it would at least convince Muggles to look elsewhere, if they were not specifically looking for someone—their gaze would simply slide around him without the watcher realising he was being manipulated. It was a useful spell, though limited as it had little effect on magic users, attuned as they were to the flow of magic.

Mathias tucked himself deeper into the alcove, wrapping his robes close about his body. The tall man gave an almost invisible shudder of distaste, as he felt one of the filthy water pipes press against his back. These robes would have to be destroyed, when he got back to England, and new ones ordered from Twilfitt and Tattings. No doubt he would have to endure another boring conversation with the proprietor, revolving around her favourite niece’s grades from Hogwarts. Gods, how he detested the insufferable woman!

This flicked rapidly through his mind as the sound of boots got closer. Sooner than expected a pair of soldiers marched past, their heavy boots tramping in time, rifles slung casually over one shoulder. Scurrying in their wake were two men, gangly and bespectacled, in long white coats. Flecks of blood marred the white of their sleeves and one had a smear of it on his cheek. They were the very epitome of the stereotypical scientist.

Mathias suppressed another shudder at the sight of their dishevelled appearance and focussed on the scientist’s rapid conversation. It was, naturally, in German and very excitable. Clearly something big had happened.

“Warum ist diese treffen jetzt so wichtig? Ich habe mich um Experimente zu kümmern!” The first scientist seemed put out at abandoning his work and meeting someone, presumably whoever was running things down here.

“Das könnte der Durchbruch sein auf den wir hofften! Wir sollten uns das unbedingt ansehen.” said the other, clearly excited.

Mathias was almost fluent in German and recognised the German for “breakthrough”—“Durchbruch”—wondering if it related to the rumours he was here to investigate. He watched the small group march past and counted to ten slowly, still able to hear the scientists arguing over this impromptu meeting. The footsteps had begun to fade away when he cautiously peered around the edge of the alcove; he watched the group turn a corner into a narrow, adjoining tunnel and continue out of sight.

As quiet as a mouse, Mathias stepped out, into the main tunnel once more. It sounded, from their conversation, as though they were heading to the central research chamber, exactly where he needed to go. If he could follow them he might be able to slip in, unnoticed, behind them.

He glided along the wall to the corner, and stealing a glance, Mathias saw a door in the side of this new tunnel slowly closing. Checking in all directions Mathias made his way to the door; the sharp click of it closing fully echoed in the narrow corridor. He pressed his ear to the metal door and listened.

At first all he could discern was noise, just a wall of sound with no purpose, no meaning. Then, slowly, he began to define texture to the noise; steam being released at high pressure, people calling out to others, large pieces of machinery operating, pistons working, the stamp of booted feet. It was a shining example of Muggle industry at work, on the other side of the door.

He began to realise however that the sound of stamping feet was not coming from the other side of the door. It was coming from the corridor that Mathias had recently left! With barely a pause, knowing he could only hope that it was clear on the other side, the blond wizard twisted the handle and slipped in through the door, pulling it closed behind him.

The air around him was sodden, heavy with moisture, steam wreathing him in its clammy grip. He stood on a rust pitted gantry, bolted to the steel walls. For a moment though, he couldn’t focus, unable even to check his immediate surroundings for danger. His attention was fixed wholly on the vast chamber that greeted his eyes.

It stretched beyond his vision, the far reaches clouded in smoke and the floor obscured by devices of all sizes. Vast, steel monstrosities of indeterminate purpose. They spouted steam, smoke and moisture in massive amounts, covering the room in a cloud of grey and white that rendered the immediate area hazy.

Blinking in sudden realisation Mathias crouched, cursing his lapse. The gantry he was stood on ran along the wall to his left, until it met an open observation deck that dominated the left wall of the chamber. A large amount of people were gathered on the platform, scientists all of them and Mathias itched to creep closer, to hear what they were discussing. No doubt their conversation would give him more information about the rumours and make his job so much easier.

Quickly he took in the rest of the area with a much more focused eye; guard positions, patrols, leaders. All of these were noted and filed away, Mathias building a picture of the area. In the distance, a machine lay, partially concealed by the fog, but large enough to make its form obvious.

There it was. The very thing he was to study—the machine he was to confirm the very existence of.

A large cylinder rested on top of the main frame of metal. Glass windows lined the sides of the cylinder, but Mathias couldn’t see into them from this angle and distance.

Near to the machine were cages, set to the left side of it, about seven yards from the device itself. Dirty, ragged people waiting for something to happen to them were visible in the cages; four cells, one prisoner in each. They would know more about the workings of the area, guard patrols and so on. He had to get closer and find out more.

Feeling exposed, this high above the floor, with no real cover, he looked for a way to descend. The only stairs were on the observation deck and the assembled guards and scientists would make getting there tricky, at best.

The only way was down it seemed.

Gathering his robes about him, Mathias glanced into the steam below. Shadowy shapes of machinery poked free of the concealing misty swirl, steel constructs large enough to support his weight.

Without further consideration he twitched his wand, wordlessly casting a spell that slowed his descent slightly, and swung himself off the gantry and into the void below. He landed softly on a rumbling sheet of metal, took two steps back and dropped into the gloom behind it.

Instantly, the moisture in the air soaked into his robes, making them heavy and clinging. The heat at this level was oppressive, swamping his mind in a clammy grip. Swiftly Mathias shrugged free of the heavy material, stepping free in simple trousers of a fine cut, a dark, open necked shirt and black braces.

Gripping his wand he pushed the robes under the edge of the contraption with his boot, concealing them in the shadows. Slowly and carefully he stepped between the machine next to him and its neighbour, a confusing knot of pipes and gauges. He peered through the mist, senses straining for signs of danger.

Above, on the platform, he could hear raised voices. They were too far away to discern their meaning but they sounded agitated; he didn’t believe they were aware of him though. Maybe this announcement they were gathering for was not to their liking. Mathias allowed himself a tight grin as he considered that possibility. He hoped it was true, especially if the Nazi bastards truly _had_ been conducting the experiments that were suspected.

Pausing at the edge of another of the endless engines, Mathias watched two guards stroll amiably by, talking quietly to each other as they shared a cigarette. Clearly security was not tight down here; after all, who would be able to penetrate the Nazi defences at Aachen?

His eyes fixed on the guards’ backs, Mathias swiftly ghosted across the open space behind them and into the shadows of more pipes and steam. The device in front of him appeared designed to generate cloying, moisture laden mist and little else. Mathias bit back a cough as the acrid steam filled his lungs. With a wave of his wand he cleared the air around himself and proceeded in a steam free bubble. He hoped that it would not be noticeable from above but coughing up a lung in this infernal smog would give his presence away much quicker. It was a risk, but a calculated one.

He paused at the next opening; he had reached the cages near the machine.

From his concealed position he studied the hulking edifice. Large red tubes ran from its sides, twelve in all, each one the thickness of a man’s wrist. Liquid appeared to fill them and flow, some pipes taking the fluid away from the machine, others sending it inwards. Mathias watched as four of the tubes emptied and he saw that the tubes were clear, not coloured as he had suspected. The residue of the liquid trickled down the inside of the pipe and Mathias knew the rumours to be true.

They _were_ experimenting with blood. And that meant that these captives were most likely wizards; pure-blood, half-blood and Mudblood no doubt. Now he needed some proof beyond his word, something to convince the Ministry to act. Whatever the Nazi’s were up to had to be stopped; it was a danger to the Wizarding world.

Checking the way was clear, Mathias crouched low behind a large water pipe and used it as cover to reach the cage on the other side. Slipping under the pipe he vanished into the cage’s shadow, the occupant still unaware that he had company.

In truth the occupant appeared to be unaware of anything right now.

Mathias recognised the man, even through the filth and dirt that clung to him. His clothes, if they could be described as such, hung from his stringy frame in tatters. Dried, flaking blood stained his wrists and arms and the figure was pale and swaying where he sat.

“Arch!” Mathias hissed, casting a cautious look around to make sure he was safe from observation. “Archie Duggen! Wake up man!”

Archibald Duggen, believed dead by the rest of the Ministry, had been an Auror in a former life. A year ago he had gone missing in France whilst trying to make contact with a pure-blood wizard, who was believed to have had information on a new machine the Nazi’s were working on; one that would be a danger to witches and wizards everywhere. Now, the once strong and proud warrior was a shadow of his former self—a wan and wasted man in rags, waiting for death.

“Archie!” Mathias said, louder now, and this seemed to get through. Archie responded, slowly, as though waking from a deep dream, and when he looked towards Mathias’ voice, it appeared to have been a nightmare. His eyes were bloodshot and they had seen the evil that men do in war.

After a moment Archie seemed to shake himself free of his stupor and focused on the shadowy figure behind the cage. “Malfoy?” he whispered, his lips cracked and bleeding, gums receding from his teeth. “Is that really you? Or have I finally cracked?”

“It’s me Duggen, get over here!” Mathias hissed impatiently. Despite being in the shadows he still felt exposed. His position was far enough away from the observation deck that he wasn’t under its shadow. It wouldn’t take much effort to pick him out should the scientists wind up their meeting. He glanced at the other cages and dismissed them. The other three were either asleep or dead and none of them stirred. Duggen may be his only hope.

Archie slowly pulled himself across to Mathias. The ragged man’s left leg dragged uselessly behind him, broken and allowed to heal naturally. Mathias felt a small twinge of worry; if he managed to get Duggen out, the man would only slow him down. Mathias changed his plan in that moment, he needed evidence but Archie was a liability and would, most likely, get them both killed.

“Mathias,” Archie said, his voice trembling. “Are you here to save us? There are more of us! Oh, Gods, so many have been killed here. We need to get out!”

“Calm down, calm down,” Mathias said smoothly, recoiling slightly from the smell of Duggen’s body and breath. Clearly hygiene was not an item high on the Nazi’s list for their prisoners. “We’ll get you out of here but I need answers. I have to report back to the Ministry.”

“There are more here?” Archie glanced around, seemingly expecting to see other wizards hidden in the shadows, awaiting the word to attack.

“No, you simpleton,” Mathias snapped, exasperated. “This is a covert operation. I’m here alone in advance of a major offensive, _if_ I can confirm that the rumours are true.” The man’s mind had clearly been affected by his imprisonment; he was going to be useless! “Now tell me, if you can; what are they working on? Is it pure-bloods like we suspect?”

Archie spoke, the words dragged out slowly and hesitantly. Mathias felt his cool calm starting to slip as the horror was revealed, piece by piece.

The experiment was not just pure-bloods; though, no doubt, those were the wizards most prized by the scientists. It was _all_ magic users—even elves, though the scientist hadn’t yet been able to get hold of more than one of them. The blood was the thing that they were after and they were testing it to find what quality, if any, gave the witches and wizards their magic and if it could even be defined and captured.

“Who is in charge of this operation?” Mathias asked, horrified at the thought that _Mudbloods_ were being tested in the same manner as pure-bloods! What possible connection could there be between the two species? And _elves_? Everything he was hearing just made it worse.

“I heard the lead scientist… uh, Reiniger, I think… he talked about the Fuhrer,” muttered Archie, fearfully.

Malfoy waved that away dismissively. Hitler would be at the head of everything if you followed the chain high enough. “He also spoke to an SS officer, I didn’t catch his name.”

Malfoy pondered this for a moment. Maybe Himmler _was_ involved after all—it wasn’t common knowledge to all yet (and Circe see to it that it never got out!) that Heinrich Himmler came from a well-respected, German, pure-blooded Wizarding family. His father, despite being a magic user, took an uncomfortable interest in Muggles. His mother was believed to be pure-blood as well but her history was well covered and not even the Ministry of Magic could learn much more than her name. An older brother, Gebhard, and a younger brother, Ernst—again, very little known about them. The whole family had up and disappeared by all accounts, some time ago. Young Heinrich… Heinrich was a Squib, one of those unfortunate things to be swept under the carpet. The boy had abandoned the Wizarding world that held no place for him, but had he turned it into some fearful quest for magic? And what had become of his parents?

Malfoy shook his head; these were not questions he had the luxury of being able to answer. In truth the ins and outs of a Squib’s life concerned him not at all. The only concern was what Himmler hoped to achieve with his tests here and whether it was a danger to pure-bloods the world over.

He realised that Archie had been muttering under his breath—exit strategies, rescue plans, recovering his wand. Malfoy held up a hand to stem the flow of words. The man clearly thought he was getting out of here now! Did he think Mathias planned on carrying the cripple all the way to London through occupied France? The man was mad!

“Duggen, I need to get closer to the machine,” he said, quietly. “I need to see it for myself, see what it does. It’s necessary for me to report directly to the Wizengamot what is happening here.” Mathias didn’t like the look that flickered across Archie’s face and took a firmer grip on his wand.

“You’re not getting me out of here now, are you?” whispered the pathetic looking man.

“Not yet, Arch. I need to see the machine first, alert the cavalry. Then we can try and find a way of getting all of you out. Okay?”

“If you go now… I can’t let you go, Malfoy. If you get caught I lose my chance to go home.” Archie was edging away from Mathias now, hauling himself along using the bars of his cage.

“I’m not going to get caught you stupid half-blood!”

“They told me to warn them if someone came in… a spy or something.” Archie was trying to stand, pulling himself up with the bars but his leg was horribly twisted underneath him.

“Don’t be a fool man!” Malfoy spat, fear and anger waging war in his chest. “If you tell them I’m here you _definitely_ won’t get home!”

“Not necessarily,” Archie said, shaking his head. “They told me, if I could get a pure-blood to take my place, they’d let me go.” Archie slumped to the floor again, giving up on standing. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, fear and resignation clear in his face. “I just want to go home to my family, Mathias. I miss them so much!”

“Listen, Archie,” Mathias said, modifying his tone slightly. All the same his voice had a slightly desperate edge to it. He was deep inside the enemy’s base; he didn’t know the area well enough to Apparate out of here. Apparition was all very well if you knew precisely where you were going and could visualise the area perfectly. He was many miles away from England and any recognisable landmarks. He had taken so many twists and turns on his journey that he was not so confident as to risk splinching himself; ending up a bleeding mess in some Parisian street was _not_ a way Mathias wanted to be found!

On top of that, when he had left Paris, the Muggles had been assaulting the city. The structural damage being caused to the city will probably have made most of his memorised landmarks unrecognisable; trying to Apparate into a battle damaged Paris would be tantamount to suicide!

He needed a covert withdrawal—if this fool blew his cover he would have to fight his way out. “Listen, I’ll get you out of here, I promise. I’ll take the Vow if I have to damn it, but I _have_ to see the machine first! I need evidence!” Mathias lowered his voice, realising that it had climbed slightly. Softening his tone he spoke soothingly. “I won’t get caught, Arch. I won’t. Five minutes and I’ll be back. We’ll get out of here, you and me; you can buy me a Firewhiskey in Hogsmeade to say thank you!”

Archie Duggen stared at Mathias for a moment before, smiling sadly. “I can’t take the chance, Malfoy. I’m sorry.”

Before Mathias could raise his wand, Archie Duggen hauled himself to his feet with a shriek of pain and began to scream as if possessed. The pain in his leg was irrelevant as he battered himself against the bars of his cage, yelling at the top of his voice, hanging onto the bars to stay upright.

Mathias swore violently and blasted the filthy man with a jet of red light, stunning him senseless. The damage was done though. Curious scientists had looked, guards had focused their attention on the cages.

Within seconds alarms sounded, powerful searchlights flashing into life and swinging towards the cage. Commands were yelled from all sides when Mathias was spotted.

 _"Bleiben sie stehen! Eindringling! Einheit B zu Sektor vier!”_ The yells were loud, amplified by the tannoy system.

Mathias was already running, ducking between two large pipes and looking for a way out, still cursing under his breath. From his left a German voice yelled a command and he felled the man with a scything sweep of his wand. As the soldier dropped, Mathias saw more behind and ahead, closing him down. Ducking to his right he found a narrow path past the very machine he needed to study. A glance showed a man, naked and bound to a table within the machine; needles were sunk into the flesh of the man’s arms and legs, needles that drew out his life’s blood. The man’s skin was sunken and tight, shrivelled with a lack of fluid.

Trying to put distance between himself and his pursuers, Mathias ran as fast as he could into a tight alley, opposite the machine. As he crossed an open space, he found himself exposed briefly as he passed in front of the awful device. A beam of light swept across and focused on him, shouts for him to stop ringing out. Mathias sent a jet of red light upwards, in reply, smashing the light and producing a cry of pain from the operator.

Changing direction again, trying to throw off the pursuit, Mathias entered another open space and collided with two soldiers. The three of them fell in a tangle of arms, legs and rifles. Mathias’ wand skittered across the stone floor, away from his outstretched hand. One of the rifles went off as it hit the floor, drawing another light their way.

One soldier lunged from his sprawled position to grab Mathias’ waist. The blond man felled him with a swift open handed chop to the neck and dove for his wand.

"Halt! Stehenbleiben!" screamed the remaining soldier, rising to his knees as he grabbed his rifle and pointed it at Mathias.

The solider should have just fired. Mathias’ response sent a deadly jet of green light from his wand which lifted the guard off his knees and onto his back, his face set in the rictus of death.

The delay had been costly though and it was too late to run now. Another light found him and a rifle shot spat up dust at the wizard’s feet, the whip crack of its report echoing in the chamber. "Keine bewegung," a voice insisted.

 _Stay still indeed_ , thought Mathias. Word had to get through to England though. With a frustrated toss of his head he flicked his wand and a pool of blue liquid poured forth, coalescing swiftly into a sleek panther. Its fur rippled with power, its body the colour of the summer sky. Mathias’ Patronus looked up at him and snarled briefly as they locked eyes, the message passing instantly between the two beings.

With a growl, the Patronus turned and leapt into the air. Immediately gunshots rang out from the soldiers, closing in on Mathias’ position, but none of them found their mark and the panther vanished through a wall, in a splash of blue fire.

The guards surrounded and disarmed Mathias in a sudden rush, one slamming the butt of his rifle against the wizard’s head. He dropped to the floor, dazed and aching. He had done what he could; now it was up to those fools in London to do the right thing.

The soldiers pulled him to his knees and bound his hands, rifles trained on him, almost daring him to move.

Groggy, his vision blurring alarmingly, Mathias saw a man in a white coat approaching. Shaking his head he tried to clear his vision as the man got closer. He saw one of the soldiers step up and hand over the Malfoy family wand to this man. Mathias thought briefly of his son, safely at Hogwarts at the moment. He had just started second year, earlier that month; would Abraxas get his birth right or would it end up on some Nazi’s wall?

The scientist was speaking to a dazed Archie Duggen, currently leaning on two guards, his leg a mangled wreck. His wrists were shackled together and two other guards walked close by, rifles trained on him.

“Sind sie sich sicher?” The scientist looked to be a man used to command. No doubt he was in charge here.

“Ja, Herr Reiniger,” responded Archie, thickly, confirming Mathias’ suspicions. This was the lead scientist, the monster in charge of this hell-hole.

“So, Mathias Malfoy… a pure blood wizard. You are sure?” he asked again.

“Ja, Herr Reiniger. I’ve known the Malfoy family for many years. They are very particular about their purity.” Archie’s face was a mixture of pain and sorrow, coupled with hope that he was soon to be released.

Mathias stared daggers at Archie. He wished the man could see how stupid he had been! Mathias’ anger was seething through him but he was held firmly, and disarmed besides. Duggen sunk in on himself, desperately avoiding the blond man’s eyes.

Reiniger knelt down in front of Mathias and began to examine him, like a dog on display at Crufts. “I think you can help us a great deal, Mister Malfoy.”

Mathias met the man’s gaze, his eyes promising all manner of painful things, if given the chance. "Warum besorgst du es dir nicht selbst, du blödes nazi-arschloch?"

Reiniger looked shocked for a moment at the insult and then started to laugh; it was deep and booming, a real belly laugh. The guards nearby readied weapons to shoot, not so amused, but the scientist raised a hand, indicating it was okay. “Go fuck myself? Hahahaa! Nazi arse-hole? Oh, you _are_ going to be a handful, aren’t you, Herr Malfoy? But you are nothing without your special sticks, ja? Reduced to little more than archaic throwbacks.”

“Why don’t you tell your goons to release me and I’ll show you what I can do without my _special stick_.”

“Um… Herr Reiniger?” Archie stammered, worried that Mathias was going to get them both shot. ” You… uh, you said that I would be released if a pure-blood could take my place?”

Reiniger gave every indication that he had forgotten that Archie had ever existed until the man had spoken. Turning to look at the tattered and ragged man, he smiled, “Natürlich.”

Reiniger clicked his fingers, already returning to lock eyes with Mathias. There was a glint in the scientist’s eyes that caused Mathias’ heart to sink and he looked up at Archie.

Just as a soldier stepped forward and placed the barrel of a pistol against the former Auror’s temple.

The blast of the gun going off was deafening at this range, but Reiniger didn’t flinch, even as the side of Archie’s head erupted in blood, bone and brain matter. The scientist kept his eyes on Mathias as Archie Duggen’s lifeless body slumped to the floor.

“After all,” he whispered to his new prisoner with an evil smile. “We don’t need him anymore.”


	3. Terminally Unique

******Chapter 2 - Terminally Unique**

 

_How far did you think you could run?_

_You crossed the last meridian,_

_And it’s all coming down now as the clock ticks on,_

_Your life is passing by._

**_~ Lamb of God ~_ **

 

 **_Aachen_ ** **_, Germany_ ** **_– October 1944_ **

 

THE bullet spanged off of the metal pipe, dirt and dust flicking into the air at its passing. More bullets peppered the opposite wall of the alcove, all fired from cover, all missing their intended targets.

Gideon Salter blew out an angry breath and took a tighter grip on his wand as he and his companions sheltered from the infernal Muggle weapons. Gideon’s dark brown robes were riddled with a number of bullet holes and his thigh stung from where he had almost been too slow to deflect an earlier attack. His short, cropped grey hair topped a scarred face that would strike fear into most hearts. His beard was wild and bushy, with a few singed hairs that spoke of another close call.

They had been pinned down for far too long by very few soldiers. Their orders were to avoid killing Muggles if they could help it; terrible business, killing Muggles—produced a huge amount of paperwork, even during a war.

Gideon took a moment to consider his companions, Aurors all. Together the five of them had travelled to Aachen, following up on a lead sent to them by one of their spies; a spy who had sent his Patronus rather than return himself. It was likely that Mathias was dead, but Gideon would be damned if he let the man’s sacrifice be for nothing. His superiors at the Ministry of Magic had only granted him leave to go after Gideon had travelled most of the way already and they knew he would not be stopped. His four allies were joined by a Patronus, a small bear that crouched and growled angrily to itself, as eager as Gideon to be moving on.

“Gentlemen,” Gideon barked, “enough of this farce! Attack pattern Epsilon; minimise casualties if possible but we need to finish this now!” The team nodded and held their wands ready as Gideon stepped out of cover.

Instantly their attackers focused weapons on the lead Auror and fired. Gideon vanished in a cloud of smoke that flooded the corridor and, as the Germans paused, trying to locate their enemy, the rest of the team struck. Apparating in small jumps across and along the corridor in precise patterns, the Auror strike force blasted the soldiers with curses and hexes that left the men twitching and bleeding on the floor.

Anger in their stance, the Aurors marched forwards unhindered, wands held ready as Gideon joined them once more, the Patronus bringing up the rear. Defensive spells leapt ahead of them, blocking side corridors or sweeping guards off of their feet, snapping guns in half, knocking soldiers unconscious or viciously cutting them down where they stood. The magic brought to bear was formidable to behold and the Aurors, free from the bottleneck at last, strode forward without difficulty.

The sound of the steel door shattering cut through even the loud hum of machinery as the Aurors blasted their way into the main machine room. They quickly took in the details of the room, spotting the cages, the guard positions, the machine itself. They noticed the lack of guards in the area and the profusion of scientists on the floor overlooking the machine.

The white-coated men turned and stared at the wizards in their robes, wands held ready to strike. One man, tall and dark haired smiled and began to clap slowly as the wizards moved forwards.

“Gentlemen, well done!” he called sarcastically, his words cultured though still with a strong German accent. “Welcome! You are from your great Ministry of Magic in England and you are here to stop our great work.”

Gideon levelled his wand at the scientist as the rest of his team took up defensive positions. “Surrender yourself now, Muggle! It’s over. Surrender now and I will only take your memory from you.” The other scientists were beginning to shift slightly, clearly not wanting to be this close to the wizards; or, more specifically, the scientist confronting them. Their edginess began to get to Gideon too; where were the guards? He had expected the greatest resistance to be concentrated here and yet the area seemed to be empty of security.

The scientist, presumably the leader, was laughing. The other scientists deferred to him and allowed him to speak but their eyes darted in all directions and Gideon felt a trickle of sweat creep down his back, knowing the trap was about to be sprung. He only needed the scientist to say the right words soon or they would all be dead.

“You English!” the scientist laughed. “You think you can just walk in and we will surrender. To the five of you and your blue creature? Your arrogance amazes me! Guards!”

At his shout the guards appeared from their concealment, guns rattling and aiming at the wizards as they moved to surround them. Several were in the raised guard positions after all, Gideon thought with a wry grin. He was getting rusty!

The Patronus flexed its muscles and growled low in its throat, raising itself up on its back legs. Several of the guards watched it nervously but they outnumbered the wizards three to one.

The lead Auror shifted his shoulders, loosening his muscles slightly as he felt the tension building around him. The guards looked nervous and Gideon could see the sweat beading on the upper lip on more than a few. Their guns though were held in steady grips with no wavering; soldiers, well trained and ready to do their duty. You had to admire them for that at least. The wizards were outnumbered, but despite these odds, Gideon merely shrugged and spoke firmly. “Last chance, Muggle. Surrender now and no-one else needs to get hurt.”

“Bring your magic, wizard,” the scientist said, with a laugh, “I would like to see it, study how you produce your magic. It might be helpful, after we kill you and dissect your still warm bodies! Kill them!”

The guards reacted instantly, their grips tightening on their weapons, but Gideon simply smiled in that instant. _Perfect_ he thought.

Before the first gunshot sounded the bear reared upwards, roaring in anger, and vanished with a deafening bang. Gideon and his Aurors dived for cover as the guards began firing, shield charms shimmering into life and deflecting the hail of gunfire. Sudden flashes of light and explosions filled the platform and the whole area was enveloped in smoke as over a dozen witches and wizards Apparated into the chamber. Screams of pain, flashes of light and gunshots sounded within the concealing clouds. Scientists attempted to flee from the cloud but bolts of red light, fired from many wands, leapt from the smoke and incapacitated them before they could get far.

The fight was over in moments.

 

* * *

 

REINIGER moaned quietly as consciousness began to return. His head throbbed, sudden stabs of pain deep inside his brain, and a surge of sickness swirled around in his stomach. He tried to cradle his head, to prevent it from falling off, but found his arms would not respond. Another roiling push from his stomach forced his head to one side and he retched, dryly.

His ears rang, the hiss of tinnitus muffling his hearing, but he could hear voices nearby; a large number, talking, shouting, arguing, but there was no panic to the noise. It was the sound of a large group of people invading his facility and pawing through his precious research.

His vision swam alarmingly as he lifted his head and tried to focus on the large number of unusually dressed people bustling around him. Many of the voices were speaking German but there were many English voices too. Reiniger could see several of his associates knelt to one side, arms behind their backs and their heads down. Some of them slumped in the pose one whose will to resist was broken and Reiniger felt a moment of disgust that they had surrendered to the enemy. The people around him all wore robes; long, dark and ornate things that Reiniger took to be standard dress amongst the Wizarding community. The scientist in him was still taking notes, and his mind and fingers itched at the sight of all of these wizards and witches with their wands and their magic… what he wouldn’t give to have these wizards in his power to put through his machine, to test their blood for that elusive magical gene.

“They are Members of _your_ Ministry of Magic, Herr Reiniger,” said a familiar voice at his side and the scientist gritted his teeth in anger. He turned his head to bring the wizard into focus. It was the one who had challenged him earlier, presumably their leader. What made him the leader? What defined him as the most powerful magic user here or was his leadership based on other qualities? So much he wanted to know!

“My name is Gideon Salter, and I am what you Muggles would consider an investigator, or a detective, in the magical world. You see, your experiments have concerned all wizard kind, Herr Reiniger. Did you think they would not act?” Gideon shook his head, ruefully. “No, I suppose that thought didn’t even cross your mind did it?”

Reiniger managed to glance down at himself and saw that he was bound in chains that pulsed and glowed with a regularity that reminded him of a heartbeat. This Gideon’s wand also pulsed in counterpoint to the chains and Reiniger realised that this wizard held his leash for the moment. Even as a prisoner he was still cataloguing new data.

“Well, it’s too late for regrets now. We have invaded your facility, taken apart your operation and freed those prisoners who are still alive. The Muggle Allied forces are currently attacking the city above and your hold on Aachen is about to be broken. Not that your Muggle war concerns us wizards, we generally ignore what you do… at least until people like you come along. Then we have to act.”

“So what do you intend to do now, wizard? You will take me back to your chief wizard in England and question me? I will not tell you anything!”

“Oh no, Herr Reiniger… absolutely not! You are far too dangerous to take to England. You will be released, soon enough. First I will take your memory from you so you will not remember anything about our encounter, this facility, or your dangerous research.” Gideon leant closer with a tight, savage smile. “Then I intend to take you to the surface and leave you in the streets above. The Allied bombardment and fighting in the streets will probably result in your death within the hour.”

“You expect this to scare me? I am not so easily scared by your threats and they will not force me to talk!”

“Before I take your mind you will tell me everything about your research and your machine,” Gideon said, lifting his wand and pointing it at his prisoner.

“Ich wuerde das niemals tun!” the scientist growled.

“You’d never do that?” Gideon smiled coldly, and shook his head. “It wasn’t a request, Herr Reiniger. And it’s not optional.” Gideon placed his wand between Reiniger’s eyes. “ _Legilimens!_ ”

 

* * *

 

  **_Hogwarts, Scotland – October 1944_ **

 

“TAKE it, son.”

The man’s voice was gentle and the young wizard glanced up, his red-rimmed eyes looking up at the older man. He was a strong man, his beard wild and untamed. His eyes were slightly sunken, as if he hadn’t slept in some time and dark circles rested beneath them, a testament to the horrors he had seen in the attack on Aachen. But for all that he exuded an aura of strength, power… and kindness.

The young man looked down at the hand held out towards him. The wand held between the gnarled fingers was as familiar to him as his heartbeat. His father’s wand - elm; dragon heartstring at its core - a powerful wand for a young boy. It was his birth right, being offered to him as was right, but he didn’t want it. Having it here meant that his father truly was dead and he wasn’t ready to face that truth yet. He was only twelve!

“It’s okay, boy,” said old Dippet, the frail, shrivelled old man smiling encouragingly. The young wizard couldn’t meet the Headmaster’s eyes, seeing softness in them that spoke of weakness, rather than kindness. “The wand is yours now, son.”

“ _I know_ that,” the young boy thought to himself angrily. “ _It’s mine because some stinking Muggle decided to kill my father and you bastards in the Ministry didn’t get to him in time!_ ” His eyes burned with more tears but he dug his fingernails into his palms, focusing on the pain in his hands, not the one in his heart. His blond hair, so much like his father’s, hung around his eyes as he looked at his shoes for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

Despite his reluctance, the wand seemed to call to him, an aura that reached out and caressed him. It was aware that he was not its master, not yet. The wand knew him! Knew that he was only a youth at the beginning of life; he had his father’s looks but softer, so others had said, more like his mother. His nose, at least was less hooked but just as strong. It was his eyes that told the world who’s son he was; grey and hard, cold like Mathias’ they stared out at the world and weighed it.

The wand promised that he could be great if he could survive the loss of his father.

Abraxas Malfoy reached out and took the wand from Gideon’s outstretched hand. A soft wind seemed to pass through the office, stirring the papers on Professor Dippet’s desk, caressing Abraxas’ hair as it swirled around him. He stood, mute, staring at the wand as it spoke to him. He was aware that the Auror was murmuring something that Abraxas supposed was meant to be encouraging. Dippet added his voice too but the young boy just wanted to get out.

“Can I be excused, Headmaster?” he asked, barely pausing before turning to walk away, hearing Dippet’s shaky voice giving him leave to go. He sensed Professor Slughorn fall in behind him but determinedly ignored him, despite Slughorn’s attempt to engage him in conversation.

Together the pair of them walked through the almost empty corridors, populated only by the occasional ghost and a couple of students, hurrying back to their dorms after detention. Eventually they reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room where, with a jovial “Serpent’s Coils!” to open the door, Professor Slughorn left Abraxas, patting him on the shoulder lightly as he went.

Abraxas stared at the open door, taking a deep breath before stepping into the common room. The conversation died almost instantly and Abraxas, with a sinking feeling, saw a couple of the older boys stand up and saunter towards him, mischief in their eyes. Abraxas glanced beyond them and saw several people grinning and nudging each other, ready for the show. The young magic user gripped his new wand tightly and watched them approach, debating whether he could hex them both before one or other of them beat him to death.

 “So,” said one, “here’s the Muggle-lover’s son. What’s the matter, blondie? Muggle got your tongue?”

Abraxas kept a tight grip on himself, hearing the appreciative laughter that met this statement. There was a laugh, high and thin, from the corner and Abraxas knew that he could be in trouble if he showed weakness. Especially if _he_ was here; _he_ made the speaker look kind.

“Get stuffed, Avery,” he muttered, dismissively.

“Oh ho! Look at this one, with the attitude,” Avery laughed. The other boy cuffed Abraxas round the ear, knocking him to the floor. Abraxas recognised him now and regretted antagonising the pair of them. Avery was bad, the laugher in the corner was worse, but Avery’s friend was in a different league. Lestrange was simply unhinged!

“Watch yer mouth, you little shit,” Lestrange spat, kicking Abraxas in the ribs, causing him to curl up on himself, gasping for breath. “No one here is gonna defend the spawn of a Muggle fucker, like you. Best thing that happened to your old man, getting killed!”

Abraxas lay still, trying to catch his breath as his stomach muscles cramped in pain. He heard a voice call out to Avery and Lestrange but he couldn’t make out the words. Blood was pounding in his ears—pain, shame, rage all warring for dominance. The older lads walked off towards the corner, laughing to themselves.

Abraxas became aware of another person nearby and he turned away from the girl who squatted next to him.

“Hey,” she said, her voice soft and just a little bossy, “I’m not going to hurt you. Come on, stand up. Don’t let them see you…”

“I’m not crying!” Abraxas said, forcefully, wiping a sleeve across his face to hide the contrary evidence.

The girl stood and held out a hand. “I never said you were. Come on, on your feet. Show them they mean nothing.”

Abraxas looked up at her, barely able to make out her face, a lantern on the ceiling casting her features into shadow. Her hair was all he could really make out and he stared at it in amazement, as he reached up and accepted her hand.

She hauled him upwards and he gathered his feet beneath him, still unable to take his eyes off of her. She was slightly taller than him, pretty in a way but that hair was wild, naturally bushy, and seemed like it would defy any hairbrush that came near it. It was fascinating! He hadn’t seen anyone with hair like it before. Most of the pure-blood witches had straight, controlled hair. This girl was completely different, and captivatingly so.

Her Hogwarts robes were neat and tidy and she carried a number of books under one arm, along with a leather bag slung over one shoulder. She looked like she was ready to study, despite the lateness of the hour. Abraxas realised that he still held her hand and stared at it like it was a snake. The girl smiled slightly, her cheeks flushing prettily as she took her hand back; Abraxas clearing his throat and tucking his wand in a pocket.

“Don’t worry about them,” she said, giving herself a shake and nodding her head towards the far corner, “they’re just trying to get in with Tom Riddle and his little gang. It’s just a phase, I’m sure it won’t come to anything.”

“I think he’s changed his name now,” Abraxas muttered, glancing around nervously, hoping the Head Boy hadn’t heard. “He doesn’t like to be called Tom anymore.”

“Oh, pfft!” She even managed to make the rude noise sound pretty. “I think its all just silly boys nonsense.” She looked the blond boy over and, for a moment Malfoy felt like a bug in a jar. “I think you might have trouble with that lot for the rest of this year, till this thing with your father blows over.”

“He wasn’t working for Muggles!” Abraxas said, angrily, his fists clenching involuntarily.

“I know,” the girl responded, primly, lifting her nose up at his aggressive demeanour. “ _I_ actually read the paper and did a little research with the right people, rather than just believing any old rubbish, spouted by the House gossips! He was working for the Ministry, trying to stop the Muggles meddling with things beyond their abilities. Which is _anything_ to do with magic isn’t it, really?” she said, with a laugh.

It was a beautiful, light, tinkling sound and Abraxas felt his heart give a small skip. He abruptly realised that he recognised her now; her tone, knowledge and carefree attitude. She was the student the teachers were raving about. Apparently she was a brilliant student and she was one of Slughorn’s favourites. The old wizard was convinced she would be famous for how intelligent she was.

The girl held out her hand to the blond boy again. “By the way, I’m…”

“Gretta Harmony, yeah, I know,” said Abraxas with a small smile, taking her hand. “You’re in the same year, aren’t you? We don’t have any classes together though, because you’re in the other group. Slughorn talks about you all the time.”

“Well, that’s only because he’s trying to ‘collect’ me for his little wall of excellence,” she said, modestly. She gave a small shudder and grimaced in distaste. “To be honest with you, the man gives me the creeps a little.”

Abraxas smiled, he could listen to her voice all day.

“And you’re Abraxas, right?” she asked.

“Yes, sorry. Abraxas Malfoy.” They still held hands, lightly and Abraxas felt a burning prickle creep up his back and tickle his neck. She really was quite pretty, with nice, brown eyes that made him feel like they were alone, though he still felt a little like he was being studied.

“Yes, I know your family well, Abraxas. I will be glad to help you out this year.”

“What makes you think I’ll need your help?” he asked, taking his hand back abruptly. He glared at her, his eyes narrowing at her presumption.

“And who else will you talk to for the next few months, whilst everyone else is ignoring you?” She raised an eyebrow at him, a slight smile quirking the corner of her mouth.

“Ah… good point, well made,” Abraxas muttered with a sheepish smile, glancing at his shoes.

Gretta nodded, as if the matter was settled. She tilted her head towards a corner of the Common Room and started walking towards it, clearly expecting Abraxas to follow her. “Now, come on, we’ll look at this Potions homework Slughorn set, shall we? Our classes won’t be too different, so we can help each other.”

Abraxas grinned and followed her.

 

* * *

 

  **_Wiltshire, England – June 1989_ **

 

THE silver photo frame was delicate and beautiful, much like the witch that looked out from it, a half smile on her face and books under her arm. Her hair bushed out, resisting all control.

Like it had their entire marriage, Abraxas thought to himself, right up until the day she died. With a trembling, palsied hand he set the picture back on his desk. Looking at his hand he let out a grunt of annoyance. The shakes were back again.

The lesions were opening on his skin once more, stinging with every movement. He could feel one opening on his back now. He could count the tendons on his hand, able to see each and every one where his skin had sunken and left him almost skeletal.

The shaking was worse than ever these days; he knew he needed more of his tonic already. Gods, he hated taking the stuff, but it seemed to calm his symptoms for a while.

“Dobby,” he croaked, annoyed at the weakness in his voice.

With a snap and a rush of air, the house elf appeared and bowed to the head of the Malfoy household. “Master Malfoy calls, Dobby is here, sir,” the elf said, with another low bow.

“Fetch my tonic,” Abraxas said, his voice brusque. “Quickly. And wake Lucius… bring him here. Tell him I need to speak to him.”

With another bow Dobby vanished, reappearing only a minute later with a glass full of a thick, blood-red liquid.

Abraxas began to drink, pausing often, with a sour twist to his mouth. The liquid stung as it passed over the open sores on his tongue, but the wizard forced himself to swallow the vile mixture.

The little elf wrung his hands, eyes large in the half light of Abraxas’ study. “Dobby has tried to improve the flavour for Master. Dobby has done what he can, Master, but… but it is the blood that is the hardest to disguise. Dobby will keep working on it, Master.”

With a sigh of disgust Abraxas lowered the now empty glass, barely feeling the elf take it from him, and sank back in his chair. The shakes were in full force now and he gripped the arms of his chair tightly. He had left it far too late, lost in his reverie of his school years. “Where is Lucius?” he snapped. “I told you to fetch him.”

“He is coming, Master! Master Lucius is on his way now.”

“Good, leave me.”

Dobby bowed and vanished with a sharp crack, just as the door opened and Lucius entered. He was dressed well, despite the hour, ready to meet any need his father may have.

Abraxas considered the young man. Barely thirty five, a beautiful wife and a son of his own; he was a good boy, even though he had got mixed up in that business with You-Know-Who, against Abraxas’ advice. The older Malfoy had been more than content to stay out of that fiasco, merely support his son and reap the benefits of a world gripped in fear. Remaining neither for nor against, Abraxas’ family had benefitted from that terror and he had done his best to help his son evade the witch hunt afterwards. It had been nearly nine years since the man Abraxas had once known as Tom Riddle had vanished, defeated by a baby, it seemed.

None of that was important. Lucius had avoided getting dragged down when the Dark Lord had vanished, that was the important part. So he was here, able to help Abraxas.

“Father,” said Lucius, coming forward to stand before him, “how are you feeling? You left your tonic late again.”

“Only a little, I needed it earlier than anticipated,” the older man said, with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Sit, Lucius, sit down.” Abraxas waved his son to a nearby chair. “I need to talk to you about taking over here, in more than name. I know you have been doing a good job being the face of the family, especially since we started that rumour about me having Dragon Pox. It was only a means to an end though, and I will be leaving you for real, very soon.”

“Father?”

“You will be the head of this family and will announce that I have died, succumbed to my illness at last. No-one will be sad to see me gone.”

“But where will you go? You are too ill to travel far.”

Abraxas reached out and pulled a book, bound in black leather, towards him. He rested a hand on it as he spoke, feeling the shakes lessening, as the tonic began to work. “I know what I need to do in order to cure this illness, my boy. Your mother, rest her soul, had started digging into dangerous territory, as was her want. This, I am certain, is what got her killed. I have found information that leads me to believe that what she uncovered, leads back to my father’s death too.”

“Grandfather Mathias? But he died in the Muggles’ war. What could be so important that it was necessary to kill mother over it.”

“That… I do not know yet.” Abraxas shook his head, annoyed it this small lack in his information. “There was an incident, at the Ministry, a couple of years before you were born. Your mother was fairly new at the Ministry, but she heard some things. An event in the Department of Mysteries that the Unspeakables hushed up. Seems that it involved quite a few people in the Ministry. The Aurors were involved, half the Wizengamot too… The Minister himself knew, naturally.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow at the list. “What was it?”

“Again, I do not know,” Abraxas said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “But your mother found that it revolved around something hidden in the lowest vaults, something that was destroyed in secret, a short while afterwards. Despite not being an Unspeakable herself, your mother had a way of getting into places where she was unwelcome. Several areas of the Department were closed off to all… all except those involved. One of the areas that was shut off from all access was the room containing the Veil of Death.

“That kills all who pass through it?”

“The same. There was a conspiracy, or some kind of uprising, within the Ministry that the highest have buried deep. They have removed as much trace of it as they possibly could, and digging just got your mother killed. And me, following up on her research… I have attracted too much notice too. They were not able to deal with me the same way they did with poor Gretta, but they have managed to infect me with this damn disease.”

“If you have found a way to cure yourself, however…?”

Abraxas raised a noticeably smoother and steadier hand to forestall him. “I cannot do so with anyone knowing. They will know where I go and will move against me with more force; I must vanish without a trace. I need only a little more information, confirmation of what little I know, from one who has the answers. I leave you the Manor, my business and my wealth. It will do me no good where I go.”

Abraxas stood up, shakily and Lucius sprang to his feet to help him. Holding on to his son’s hand he steadied himself, staring at the unblemished skin on his arms. At least the tonic was still working. Still, wouldn’t do to be without at least a few more doses, for when he left, just in case it took longer than he expected to find the cure.

Lucius glanced down, following his father’s gaze to his own arm now. The two looked at each other and a silent communication passed between them. Lucius gave a curt nod and bared his arm, lifting his sleeve with his free hand. “My blood is yours, father.”

“Good boy.”


	4. Overlord

**Chapter 3 - Overlord**

 

 _Caught in an endless rut_  
_A crisis without solution_  
_Someone should stitch your mouth shut_  
_And solve your fucking problem._  
  
_Strife!_  
_Another day in misery_  
_Always the same_

**_~ Lamb of God ~_ **

 

 

**_St Albans, England – 15 th July 2004_ **

 

“Shit, shit, shit, it’s burning!” Hermione dragged the freshly baked loaf out of the oven, savouring the smell even, as it burned her hands. Dropping the loaf onto the clean chopping board Hermione set to blowing on her hands, trying to cool them, whilst admiring her handiwork. “Not bad for a first attempt,” she muttered, scraping the patch of blackened crust from the top of the loaf. “I’m no Molly Weasley, but it’s not bad.”

Setting it to cool she turned her attention to the rest of the dinner, briefly checking her hair in the reflective glass on the cupboard. It was strange to see her hair styled so differently, straight and down on one side, up and gathered on the other. _“But needs must,”_ she thought to herself, making sure that her hair curled forward across her cheek, _“At least we’re finally having people over! I just hope Harry’s here soon … I’ll kill him if he ruins another dinner date!”_

Everything else was coming together nicely, just a few more minutes for the chicken to crisp up and she could serve it up. Picking up the tray, loaded with several glasses, Hermione backed out of the kitchen, pushing the door open with her backside.

“Who’s for booze?” she sang merrily as she turned to face her friends. Seamus Finnigan’s hand was the first in the air, as usual, Hermione noted with a smile.

“Right here, Hermione. Beer me!” Seamus called in his Irish accent, opening and closing his hand in her direction. He was sat in one of the armchairs, his back to the kitchen. “I got a mouth like Merlin’s flip-flop!”

“Seamus, enjoy,” Hermione said, passing a pint glass into his waiting hand. By the time Hermione had distributed the rest of the drinks, she turned back to find Seamus holding an empty glass and sighing happily. “Really?” she asked.

“Yeah, sorry,” he grinned. “Thirsty. Luna’s been keepin’ me busy, decoratin’ the flat.”

The girl in question, sat on the sofa, batted her eyelashes at her Irish lover, “Well, if you had finished painting the bathroom earlier this week, like you promised…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Seamus grinned, “Point made.” He laughed and kissed Luna on the cheek as she took a sip of her wine.

“He never was a big fan of hard work in Hogwarts either,” Neville Longbottom stage-whispered to the pretty red-head, sat next to him.

“Oi!” Seamus called, pointing a finger at his friend, a grin on his face, “Watch it Longbottom! You may be taller than me but I can still kick yer arse! _And_ in front of yer woman too!”

As Neville laughed, Ginny Weasley—the tall man’s girlfriend—rolled her eyes. “Men!” she muttered. She looked up at Hermione who was smiling happily, watching this exchange between her friends. Ginny liked what Hermione had done with her hair, it was different. It was so nice to see her again after so many cancelled dinner dates and nights out; she appeared happier too.

Hermione tapped Seamus’ glass with her wand and it instantly began to refill. “There; that should keep you going at bit longer.

“Ahh!” sighed Seamus, as Hermione walked back towards the kitchen, “Yer a saint, Miss Granger!”

“I’ll come give you a hand, Hermione,” called Ginny, as she hopped up from her seat, “Leave these boys to posture.”

Luna also stood and walked with Ginny as Seamus tilted his head back and called after the red-haired woman, “There ain’t much posturin’ to be done here, Weasley. I’m an International Quidditch star, and yer man’s a gardener! I win!”

The girls laughed as they entered the kitchen, hearing Neville and Seamus start arguing, good naturedly.

“You play for your local Irish team, they’re hardly international!” laughed Neville.

“Maybe, but _yer_ still a gardener!”

“I’m the _Herbology Professor_ at Hogwarts, you cheeky shit!”

“Potato, Potahta! You still dig up plants!”

Out in the kitchen the three girls chatted animatedly as they gathered the meal together, dishing up the wonderfully prepared food into serving bowls and placing them on the table. Ginny was setting the table as Luna carried the fresh bread over and set it down. Hermione brought the chicken out of the oven and smiled happily at the beautiful smell that wafted from the crispy skin.

The house was a small terraced property to the north of London, near St Albans. The front door opened into a small hallway with stairs straight in front which led up to the two bedrooms and the bathroom. Downstairs, a door in the hallway opened into the lounge. Large windows dominated both ends of the room which, during the day, let in a wonderful amount of light. At the far end, on the same wall as the door from the hallway, was the entrance to the kitchen and dining area, a section of the house that had Hermione’s stamp all over it. It was neat and tidy, with racks of Muggle and wizarding cookbooks set on one wall, accompanied by recipes written out by Hermione in her neat handwriting. The right side of the large room was dominated by the kitchen and work surfaces with a breakfast bar surrounding it on two sides. To the left of this area, directly in front of the door from the lounge, was the dining area – a large pine table and chairs, set by the window to allow as much light in as possible.

As she transferred the chicken from the roasting tin to the serving plate Hermione knew that Harry was going to be late, again. Rather than let it get her down and ruin the evening, she decided to carry on with the meal. She glanced over her shoulder towards the lounge. “You can stop fighting and come on through now, boys!” she called and laughed at the whoop of joy from Seamus. Within moments the two men pushed on through to the kitchen, bringing all of the drinks with them. Seamus raced Neville for the seat next to the bread.

“I like what you’ve done with your hair, Hermione,” commented Luna, as she collected a bowl of vegetables. “Did you do it like that to cover the bruise on your cheek?”

For a moment there was silence and Hermione found she couldn’t move. The shock of Luna’s blasé comment, so typically Luna, had momentarily scrambled her mind; she couldn’t think. There was a clatter from the table as Ginny dropped the remaining cutlery, the noise jolting Hermione from her paralysis. She didn’t need to look to know that Seamus and Neville had ceased their playful fight for the first slice of bread. There was a deathly silence behind her and Hermione closed her eyes, hoping the last few seconds would turn out to be a dream.

“What are you talking about, Luna?” Hermione struggled to keep her voice even, anger and fear warring for dominance. Fear that Luna had seen through her disguise, anger because she had done so and announced it in front of everyone.

“Are bruises like that why you’ve cancelled on us before?” Luna said, calm as a mill pond. “You seem to go reclusive once in a while, though Harry carries on, going out and about…”

“Luna, please,” Hermione whispered, turning to face her friends; her heart sank and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she saw the horror on Ginny’s face, the sadness on Neville’s, the anger on Seamus’. Luna looked… like Luna. She leant against one of the chairs by the table, seemingly unaware of the devastation her comments were causing. _“Oh, Merlin, they know!”_ she thought to herself.

“Hermione…” Ginny moaned, moving towards her best friend, the men came to their feet, concern in their eyes. The red-head brushed back Hermione’s hair, revealing her hidden shame. The flesh between her ear and her eye was a nasty browny-yellow colour, with hints of black and purple. The bruise was about the size of an apple… or a fist.

Ginny allowed the hair to fall back over the bruise, one hand on her forehead, and she took two steps back, Neville reaching out to support her as her legs wobbled.

Hermione held out a hand to her friend, desperately searching for a smile, anxious to dismiss Luna’s comments as fantasy. “I’m fine, Ginny, honestly. I-I-I fell… the other day…”

“Bullshit!” Ginny hissed, striding towards her once more. “That’s the sort of crap that Parvati came out with when her husband was beating her! Is that what’s happening?” Ginny grabbed Hermione’s outstretched arm and was surprised when the older girl gave a cry of pain, recoiling from the red-haired girl’s touch. “Wha…?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Hermione insisted, drawing her arm away from the startled Ginny.

Seamus was stood next to Hermione without her realising he had moved; firmly holding her arm he drew her sleeve back, revealing her forearm. Ginny’s hands flew up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide in shock. Neville sighed and looked down, pain in his expression. Luna looked serene, still seemingly unconcerned that her comment had totally destroyed the happy bubble Hermione had been living in. Seamus’ face was pure thunder as he looked at the jagged, barely healed, cut that graced his friend’s forearm. “And I suppose this was an accident as well, was it?” he asked, quietly, suppressed anger in his tone.

“It’s not what you think, Seamus, honestly!”

“The time ya cancelled on me an’ Luna, for our house-warming party… that was the time ya suddenly took time off work too… I wondered ‘bout ya, cos ya stopped talkin’ to everyone for a week.” Seamus spoke quietly, but his voice shook and Hermione knew that they had all noticed things about her behaviour; things that she, the cleverest witch of their generation, had thought hidden.

“You argued at my acceptance dinner at Hogwarts, didn’t you Hermione?” asked Neville, “And then you became a recluse for a few days afterwards. You and Harry have argued a lot since you got together.”

“Everyone argues, Neville,” Hermione moaned, “every couple fights, occasionally!”

“Yes, but when the argument is over, neither me nor Neville is bleeding!” Ginny raged, gesturing wildly. “This is why you stayed with your parents for a few days, isn’t it? You left Harry because he was hurting you. I _knew_ something was up! Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Ginny was crying now and the sight of it broke Hermione’s heart; she didn’t want this, she hadn’t wanted her friends to find out. She lowered her head, her hair swinging forward to conceal her face. She couldn’t look at any of them, the hurt and sorrow in their eyes – it was all too much.

“Hermione,” Seamus said quietly, for her ears alone, his fingers lifting her chin. “ _Is_ he hittin’ ya? Please tell us, love. We’re all here for ya.”

“No, Seamus. He’s not. Please, can we just have dinner? It’s going cold!” Hermione drew her sleeve back over the cut, hiding it from sight, wishing she could do the same to herself.

“Harry’s temper has always been quite volatile, especially since the war ended,” Luna observed, “You _both_ seem to be quite aggressive, actually. He seems to calm down after an argument with you, though. And you go into hiding. Why is that, do you think?”

“Luna, please!” Hermione could feel her face heating up, angry at her friend’s words. Why did the blonde woman have to speak her mind about this? Why couldn’t she just leave it alone so Hermione could try and salvage this evening? “Can everyone just, please, sit down? I want to have a nice evening with my friends!” Desperate though she was to keep her voice even, she was upset to hear it tremble.

Determinedly she ignored it and carried the chicken across to the table and set it down. Taking her seat she was pleased to see Neville sit down too. Luna calmly took the seat next to Hermione and Ginny, ungraciously, dropped down opposite Luna. Seamus remained standing for a moment longer, before moving back towards the table. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that she could stop herself from giving in to the tears that still threatened. For the first time this evening she desperately hoped Harry _didn’t_ come home tonight.

Just then the front door slammed, dashing those hopes. Hermione was horrified to see Ginny’s eyes blaze with anger and knew that the evening was ruined. Irrevocably.

Through the door to the kitchen came, a very clearly drunk, Harry. His glasses were askew and he swayed alarmingly, eyes slightly unfocused as he looked around the kitchen. “Am I late?” he slurred, “Why’d you shtart withou’ me?” Hermione could smell the firewhiskey from across the room and her heart sank to the floor. It was going to be another bad night.

Harry lurched towards the table, gaze fixed on Hermione who couldn’t help but lean back. “Why’d you start without me Her’m’ne? Huh!?”

“Harry,” whispered Hermione, “we’ve got company… please!”

“Back off a bit there, Harry,” said Seamus, tightly, “We’ve only just sat down.”

Ginny couldn’t keep quiet any longer. Neville tried to stop her but the petite red-head surged to her feet. She tried to pull away from Neville, clearly determined to attack Harry physically as well as verbally. “Back off a bit? What the hell!? He’s been hitting Hermione! Haven’t you? We’ve seen the bruise on her face. The cut on her arm! We’ve all noticed the strange absences and now it’s all come together!”

Hermione covered her face with her hands, desperate to block out the scene. She felt soft, feminine hands on her arms and heard Luna’s voice, whispering words of comfort. She peered through her fingers as Ginny’s tirade continued. Seamus was stood now, his posture one of suppressed anger but he stood between her and Harry. Neville was desperately hanging onto Ginny’s waist and shoulder, the only thing stopping the fiery woman from launching herself at Harry.

And Harry… he seemed calm in the face of Ginny’s rage. And that brought a clenching fear to Hermione’s gut. That calm was always a sign of danger.

“Ginny,” he said, no longer swaying, his voice cutting through her assault. “Did Hermione explain how those injuries happened?”

“Yeah, some cock and bull story about falling!” Ginny fought against Neville’s hold again.

Harry had not taken his eyes off of Hermione. She saw Seamus shifting his weight, ever so slightly – like he was holding himself back from attacking his friend.

“Please, Ginny,” Hermione said, “it’s true. We… we were moving a wardrobe the other day and I slipped. I crashed into a table and hit my head. The fall broke a glass too, which cut my arm.”

Ginny turned to look at her, gaping in exasperation, all of the fight going out of her. Neville’s eyes were filled with pain as he shook his head, still not willing to relinquish his hold on his girlfriend, just in case.

“There then,” said Harry, eerily happy and smiling at Seamus, as if not able to see the anger in every line of his friend’s body. “That’s that settled. I’m very sorry for ruining the evening. Maybe we should try this again another day?” It was not really a question, it was clear to Hermione that their friends were being dismissed. “I’ve recently been suspended from work over a difference of opinion and it’s all a bit stressful, I’m afraid. It’s okay, Hermione and I will clear up.”

Harry looked at Hermione again, all evidence of his earlier drunkenness gone. Seamus was muttering something under his breath, looking more and more like he was going to punch Harry. Ginny had found her fight again, telling Harry that she knew about the suspension from Ron; Harry had had a fight with one of the Senior Aurors, a minor disagreement that Harry had escalated to a Muggle style fist fight.

As Harry continued to repeat gentle words of dismissal and insist that it would best if they called it a night. Ginny was refusing to leave Hermione alone with Harry. Seamus added his own voice now, barely controlled fury rippling under the surface. Harry’s dismissive responses broke through the last of Ginny’s tenuous hold on her temper, and Neville had to restrain her from launching herself at the dark haired wizard.

In the meantime, Luna was whispering to Hermione, asking questions that prompted reluctant nods from the distressed witch. The blonde woman’s voice was calm and controlled, her words bringing tears to Hermione eyes. She acknowledged Luna’s last statement as truth, though it broke her heart to do so. Smiling sadly, Luna planted a firm kiss on her friend’s forehead and stood.

The movement startled Seamus and caused the talking to cease. Luna took Seamus’ arm and smiled up at him, “You’re not going to fight with Harry. And the evening isn’t going to recover so I think it best if we went home.” Over Seamus’ protests the smaller woman thanked Hermione and Harry for the dinner and then, with a strength belied by her frame, she dragged Seamus out of the room. The remaining friends heard the sharp ‘CRACK!’ as Luna and Seamus Disapparated from the lounge.

Ginny looked at Hermione, a stubborn set to her jaw. Hermione simply took the younger woman’s head in her hands and planted a soft kiss on her forehead.

“It’s okay,” Hermione whispered, “just go… please.” Without giving Ginny the chance to respond Hermione turned to Neville, hugging him tightly and whispering under her breath. His eyes widened, momentarily, but he stilled his expression after an imperceptible glance towards Harry.

Neville took hold of Ginny around the waist and, much as Luna had done with Seamus, thanked Harry and Hermione for the meal. He then almost dragged Ginny from the room, heading out the back door and into the garden, whispering furiously under his breath.

As the back door closed, Hermione found her eyes drawn inexorably to Harry. She wrapped her arms around her own waist, hugging herself as fear began to course through her body in regular pulses, matching her rapid heart beat. She knew what was coming and struggled to find calm, to try and find a way to defuse things before they got out of hand. Again.

Harry pushed away from the table and started to walk towards her.

She closed her eyes, serenity fleeing and anger boiling up within her. This was the problem they had; Harry pushed and she attacked back.

They had had such an amazing love in the beginning, so powerful sometimes that it had near stopped Hermione’s breath. First Harry had been her best friend, and almost without knowing when the balance had shifted, suddenly he was the most important person in her life; the only one that understood her pain, the torment they had both suffered—Harry with carrying the twisted shard of Voldemort’s soul, Hermione with the torture she had undergone at the hands of Belatrix Lestrange. It had changed them both, and they had recognised that damaged part of each other.

She had broken up with Ron, finding a closer match with Harry’s dark and twisted moods, his anger, his passion. Their love was tempestuous and fierce, clinging to each other rather than getting the help they truly needed, letting all that hurt twist inside them. It always brought up the past, the memory of their time on the run, when they had had no one but each other. They became sick of the sight of each other, sick of leaning on each other, but had no one else to turn to. It bound them together in a love that was both passionate and twisted.

They lashed out in their frustration, and in those moments, words and actions hurt. Injuries caused in body and soul—broken arm (which Hermione said happened when she fell in the bath), cracked ribs (from running into a table), a new scar on Harry’s cheek (which was an accident at work). They fought over stupid, small things; shouting at each other, just losing themselves in those moments, needing to get it out… just let the poison out of their system before it got out of control. Things were always better afterwards, after they had let it out. Peace reigned, for a while at least.

Some fights though were worse, and they had been getting worse as time went on. They swore they would stop hurting each other, for Hermione had given as good as she got, Harry’s face and arms covered in healed scratches, bite marks. Harry was stronger though, more prone to throw a fist than a slap; a kick rather than a shove. She always came off worse in the fights that she started.

Yes, she acknowledged to herself, she started—or at least escalated—many of the fights, some which possibly wouldn’t have led to blood being shed. Harry was always able to finish them though.

The pair of them couldn’t go on like this. No matter what he had said, no matter the threats to her parents, she couldn’t live like this any more. She needed to be free.

As he reached her she shoved him away, screaming that he had ruined another evening for her, that their friends knew everything, that she had had enough. She barely registered the sting on her palm as it connected with Harry’s face, yelling that she was leaving him for real this time – no more games.

Harry caught her arm as she tried to slap him again, leaning forward and roaring in her face, “I’ll fucking kill you first!”

As Hermione felt the first punch, hot and angry against her face, she desperately hoped that Luna knew what she was talking about.

 

* * *

 

  **_St Albans, England – 21 st July 2004_ **

_She’s leaving me. I’ve pushed her too far this time and truly lost her. The great Harry Potter - rejected by his lover; The Daily Prophet will have a field day with this one! Maybe there’s a chance to convince her to stay… maybe she won’t leave me after all. I’ve got to try!_

“Hermione… Hermione, wait!”

_I’m running out of the door, chasing after her but all it does is make her walk faster at first. She’s so scared right now and I don’t blame her... I’ve been a complete shit to her! **Don’t let her leave!** I can’t let her leave; she told me that she can’t take it anymore, but I can’t live without her._

“Hermione, please! Please wait.”

_She’s stopped. I’m so grateful for that small victory that I can’t help but smile. I can feel it twist when she looks over her shoulder at me; the fear and the pain in her eyes… **Focus. We can’t lose her!**_

“Darling, please come back, come back to the house. I don’t want it to end like this.”

_The way she looks at me tears my heart in half. Her eyes are swollen and red; she’s been crying. **Hurting herself? She needs looking after…** and I don’t blame her. The pain I’ve caused her…_

“Please, this was my fault, I know it and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry!

_This was our game; we argue, we fight, we make up… so many times we’ve done this. The make-up sex is always incredible and even now I can feel myself getting hard, just thinking about it. I’ve always been able to talk her round before, but this time… I’m not so sure **even though she clearly enjoys the drama** that this is a game anymore. I can see that she’s hunched, scared. **Speak quieter then.**  If I lower my voice maybe she won’t be so scared._

“We both said things we didn’t mean… did things we regret. We’ve been through so much together. We were just friends for so long, but we found a love that had no equal.”

_I want to take her hand, to show her I still remember how to be soft and gentle… **No.**_

“We let that love get caught up in our anger… our scars. We both did it and I’m sorry. I should have stopped… helped you to stop too. So we could have a normal relationship, without the rage.”

 **_She agrees with us on this… the drama, she thrived on it really._ ** _It’s working… at least she hasn’t left yet, though her hand is twitching, like she wants to grab her wand. **That’s how it started… in fire and flames… thrilling, aggressive… dramatic…** it’s a good job I took it off her really, otherwise I would have been cursed into oblivion!_

“We can get through this Hermione… we can!”

 **_She scared Weasley away with her temper!_ ** _After the war neither of us could settle down to normality. God knows we tried! **I can still remember Ron telling us that he was scared of his girlfriend!** Ginny and I never really got back together but we accepted it – we had moved on and could never find a way to go back. **Coward, didn’t realise how great it could be if you let yourself go!**_

“I know I get violent, but I can change, I can get help. I _will_ get help, I promise you! I don’t want us to be like this anymore”

_Her temper’s as bad as mine – we’re the same; aggressive and fiery. I feel like I’m repeating myself… like I’ve thought these thoughts already. **But she loves us, blindly, poor girl… she can’t be without us** and I can’t live without her._

“Us being together isn’t crazy… It’s not! We’ve just got to work it out. We’ve got to stop the anger, stop the fighting. Our first reaction is to shout at each other, then that escalates! We’re like two natural disasters meeting!

 **_Boom! Hahahaaa!_ ** _Why is that funny?_

“We can get through this… Hermione please… we both get so angry sometimes. And we need to work on that, find a way to live with our past and not take it out on each other!”

 ** _Tears… tears are good,_** _I want to hold her **don’t touch her…** she’s crying so I’m getting through… I _must _be getting through to her. I can’t lose her. **Gently now.**_

“Please, come inside… bring your things and come back inside. I love you more than I can possibly say and I need you by my side, now more than ever.”

**_Easy… easy… softly, softly, catchy witchy…_ **

“I’m being sincere Hermione, look in my eyes.”

_Can’t you hear it in my voice, **bitch**?_

“I told you this is my fault and I’ll get help. But I can’t do this without you.”

 **_It’s no fun without her._ ** _I’m going to cry too… wait, fun? Maybe she’s calmed down enough to try and lighten the mood? I always could make her laugh when things were going good._

“Next time I get angry I’ll punch the wall! Haha!”

 **_No, idiot! Carefully now!_ ** _Shit, that didn’t work. I’m going to lose her. I can see her recoiling from me again, ready to run._

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! There won’t be a next time! I promise, never again!”

_Yes! She’s relented. **She’s ours!** I’m tired of all these games now; I just want us to be happy. **Apologising,**_

“Here, sweetheart, let me get that one. I love you.”

_No more fighting, just to be with her. **We both know it’s all a lie…** it’s all I’ve ever wanted._

“Go on through to the lounge, Hermione, I’ll take your bags upstairs. I’ll put the kettle on in a minute.”

**_If she tries to leave again…_ **

“I’ll burn this fucking house down before that happens…”

 **_Yes… with her in it._ ** _What did I just say?!_

“Nothing, darling. Just struggling with the cases… no, no, it’s okay. I got it love, just sit and I’ll be down in a minute. I’m just really glad you’re staying. I know we can get through this.”

 **_Nicely covered… that one slipped out didn’t it?_ ** _It’s true though… God save me, it’s true! **We know** … I’m not losing her again, whatever it takes **and we’ll help keep her here…**_

_My head’s hurting, I've been hearing this voice for weeks, and it agrees but… it's been getting stronger recently... Who are you? **We’re you.** How is that possible? I think I’m going mad. **Shhh… don’t think about it. Just go with it.** Okay. I can’t lose her. **We won’t… we’ll take care of her.**_


	5. Hourglass

**Chapter 4 - Hourglass**

 

_God forbid you read the signs._

_Watch for meaning between the lines_

_Gehenna has now arrived, no hindsight for the blind._

_Your trust has been misplaced, believed the lies told to your face_

_Became another casualty and now it's too late._

**_~ Lamb of God ~_ **

 

 

**_St Albans, England – 21 st July 2004_ **

 

With the crash of breaking glass and snapping wood, Hermione fell to the bedroom floor. The small glass table was unable to support her weight as she landed, heavily. Barely able to move, she could only stare as the blood started to flow from the lacerations on her palms; slivers of agony stabbed at her flesh as she tried to crawl away from her attacker.

He was coming closer. She could hear his heavy footsteps; the rasping breaths that burst from his mouth. She could still see the rage in his eyes and knew that she was going to die.

Hands, hard and violent, grasped her ankles and she screamed as she was dragged backwards, her arms and face being cut by the splinters of glass – a scarlet stream before her eyes.

She was hauled upwards by her wrist, her arm twisted behind her back. There was an explosion of pain, as she felt her shoulder give way under the pressure and the agony forced another bloodcurdling scream from her lips. The hand, which impacted with her cheek, felt gentle by comparison and she almost laughed at the thought, even as she was spun to the floor once more.

Lying on her back, she stared up at the ceiling through blood smeared vision. With the blinding pain lancing through her abused shoulder she barely felt the heavy kick to her side. The impact rolled her, her head striking the wall – stars burst before her eyes as she flopped, limply, onto her back once more.

She was shivering uncontrollably and a part of her mind, the analytical side, steadily began to catalogue her injuries; lacerations, broken arm, dislocated shoulder. Probably fractured ribs now. Shock was already starting to set in.

She was going to die here.

She faced that knowledge calmly and welcomed it like a kind lover. The soft caress of Death’s scythe would take her away, leave her pain behind – she was ready to leave this broken shell on the floor of this bloodied room.

So much for the plan… It seemed that Luna had abandoned her, after Harry had beaten Seamus: the poor man was laid up in St Mungo’s, possibly with as many injuries as Hermione herself now had! No, the enigmatic witch had left her to her fate. She should have taken the chance sooner. Warned her parents, made them hide. But it was too late for that now.

Her attacker stood above her, his glasses gone, lost in the melee. Merlin only knows what the rest of the house looked like, she thought, the wild urge to laugh shooting through her again.

Her favourite vase had slowed him down slightly, and now lay shattered on the hallway carpet. The roses hadn’t survived the fight either, their petals lay like blood drops across the hallway; the stripped stems glistened wetly in the moonlight that shone through the window. When the vase had smashed the witch had been left with a handful of roses, and had used them as a flail; the sharp thorns had torn up Harry’s cheek. There was a smudge of makeup on the hall window, where her face had impacted.

Who was this man? Harry was gone. Someone new, someone terrible lay behind his eyes now. The man who had loved her was no more. This… monster… he had control now.

And he was going to kill her. Death hovered at his shoulder, ready to strike.

The strange man leant down, hand out, a grasping claw coated in her blood.

Hermione fell into the blackness of his hollow eyes, and knew no more.

  

* * *

 

 

**_Wiltshire, England – September 2004_ **

 

TEARS trickled down Hermione’s cheeks as she gazed up at the ceiling. The whorls and delicate, graceful swirls of the decorative plaster work intrigued her and her gaze followed a swirl from one side of the room to the other, only her eyes moving. It looked like the ocean waves; a thought that made her shudder.

_The clang of Azkaban's huge iron doors, as they slammed shut, reverberated through Hermione’s body. She trembled at the terror they held, the memories of her journey down into the depths of the nightmarish prison; the walls, dripping with the salty water of the North Sea; the cries of the inmates in the upper levels; the terrifying silence of the prisoners in the bowels, their empty eyes; Harry… Oh God, Harry!_

“She’s burning up,” a female voice mumbled, from a great distance away, “fetch me a cloth. Now!”

A cool hand seared Hermione’s forehead as _she gazed out at the violent storm that raged around her and her companion. He was speaking again but she couldn’t deal with his caustic comments about their visit right now. She had to look to the future, not backwards._

_“You got what you wanted,” she spat at him at his presumptuous comment. Why shouldn’t she want to get away from this man and his family, the ones who had killed Harry, no matter that her other friends had helped. But no one remembered that now… Memory Charms enveloped those that knew, those that could help her…_

_“God help me, I’m free of him,” she said, tears stinging her eyes as she realised that she would never again feel Harry’s touch; whether in anger, or in love._

“Damn it, get out of my way!” Someone was irate and taking it out on whoever was nearby. “If you want to help, help, but if you are going to just get in the way then leave!”

That was Madam Pomfrey’s voice, she was sure of it! Maybe she could help her find a way to work out what to do _as she stared at Draco’s shoes, on her own feet… sort of. She was Polyjuiced to look like Draco, wearing his clothes to maintain the pretence that Hermione Granger was dead to the world._

_“Miss Lovegood ran up quite a debt with me for these last couple of weeks of work,” Lucius said with a small, steely smile. “Luna’s debt now belongs to you. And I am collecting it now.”_

_“What do you want from me?” Hermione could barely speak past the lump in her throat. Her body was shaking with fear at her precarious position._

“She’s convulsing!” a new voice said, male, young; he was concerned, a little scared even.

“Yes, thank you Professor Obvious!” Poppy was clearly in a bad mood and Hermione could feel her gentle but firm hands as they held her arms. But they couldn’t stop the chills that coursed through her body. She was freezing and burning, dead but alive. A terrible paradox indeed. “Draco! Stop pointing out the obvious and hand me the vial of _bile rose in Hermione’s throat at Lucius’ words._

 _How could she find a corpse!? Why didn’t_ he _know where his father was?_

_“My father did not die as the public believes. The illness he contracted was something more serious than Dragon Pox and he is trying to find a cure for it.”_

_“Where is he?”_

_Lucius’ face, when he finally turned to look at her was terrible to behold. His skin was sunken and ashen, fires burned in his eyes; raging flames that filled the steely gaze with an evil beyond compare. They were his eyes, Harry’s eyes, before the end when he was drunk and violent._

_Lucius’ hand held an ornate device; a highly decorative piece that held both beauty and terror within it._

_An hourglass. A Time Turner. Possibly the last one in England._

”Madam Pomfrey?” came a hesitant voice, a lady.

“Get out, all of you!” Madam Pomfrey sounded scared and that was unlike her. Hermione wondered what was happening; she could feel her magic responding to her own fear—and the fear of everyone near her—and _within the depths of the Hourglass Hermione saw Death; lasting, lingering and painful Death. One that took all you had and pulled still more from the depths of your soul. A Death that promised more pain than any human could possibly imagine._

“Mother, come away!” That male voice again. Hermione recognised Draco’s voice this time, the memories associated with it too.

She felt something as _lightning struck Lucius Malfoy, igniting his form where he stood. The fire roared across his flesh, burning it away as a huge cloud of destruction rose behind him, burning the whole world in its path. The wave of devastation sweeping away from them, taking Lucius’ body away, charred and crumbling to ash. Except his hand._

_Skeletal and thrust out of the wall of fire, it held the Hourglass out towards her, insisting that she take it._

Hermione started to scream in terror and her magic responded _as Luicus spoke again, a disembodied voice behind the fire. “Not where, Miss Granger… When.”_

_Involuntarily she took the Time Turner and the fire tore her apart._

_Her clothes—Draco’s clothes—were turned to ash. Her flesh was blackened in an instant as the searing pain swept across her. She continued to feel, she continued to shriek in agony and terror, even as her skin was peeled from her. Her hair crackled and shrivelled to black nubs. Her eyes ruptured and melted in their sockets as the flames gathered her into their nuclear embrace. The Hourglass was a furnace in her hand and her flesh was boiled away, leaving her skeleton exposed to the fire. Still she screamed as the pain tore at her and_ she felt her magic roaring and blasting everything within reach. Her magic _burned and shattered her bones, one by one._

_Steel eyes appeared in the flames, never seen before yet strangely familiar. A name, at once strange and yet so achingly familiar to her. A memory of years gone by and what was yet to come. “You are the one, Hermione,” came the voice, silk over iron. A voice used to command and obedience. A voice that touched her heart with fear. A voice that caressed her soul with desire, even as it destroyed what was left of her form._

_At its touch she crumbled to ash_ and collapsed to the mattress, her body drenched in sweat. She heard the sound of someone falling to the floor with seemingly terrible finality, and Narcissa Malfoy screaming, as blackness reached out and dragged Hermione under.

 

* * *

**_London, England – December 2004_ **

 

THE tall man ran a weary hand through his flaming red hair. It needed a trim, he thought to himself as he checked the time on his watch for the fifteenth time, the tiny stars moving around the face in place of hands. He had almost forgotten about his own hair, after six months of practically living on Polyjuice potion. He flicked the lid up on the silver object in his right hand and two small balls of light were sucked from the lamps on the wall, plunging the room into darkness.

“Once more!” said an angry voice in the darkness. “Just do that one more time, Weasley. Just _once_ more and I’ll stuff it up your bloody nose!”

“Sorry, Malfoy, nervous habit,” muttered Ron as he flipped the lid on the Deluminator once more, allowing the tiny balls of light to shoot back into the lamps again. With the room brightly lit once more Ron swivelled round in his chair and turned his red rimmed eyes towards the man behind the desk.

The handsome man lifted his head from the report in front of him, his slightly pointed features fixed in an expression of annoyance. Catching sight of the red-head’s eyes he shifted his gaze instantly away, still unable to meet the haunted look in them for long. Draco’s platinum blond hair flicked briefly over his eyes as he composed his features into stillness once more. “Weasley, stop playing with that damn thing and help me with this report,” he muttered, his emotions roiling inside him and causing his voice to be harsher than he intended it. “We need to file this tomorrow so the Wizengamot can convict that freak and put him away.”

Wiping his eyes on the sleeves of his robes Ron tucked the Deluminator into his pocket. “Yeah, yeah you’re right.” Pulling a file from the pile Ron began to study the various reports from their year long investigation. For a long while there was only the scratch of quill on parchment as each of them concentrated on putting together their case against the Dark wizard that had, until recently, terrorised half of Cornwall. The only time they spoke to each other was to compare certain aspects of the investigation and the eventual take down of the wizard.

At one point Draco found himself studying Ron work, half on the verge of speaking. He knew Ron had been hit hard at the news of Hermione’s death and it was made even worse because he had only found out about it several days after it had happened. He had been undercover, working his way into the Dark wizard’s inner circle when Hermione’s funeral had been held.

It had been huge news in the Wizarding community; the death of one of the Heroes of the War. And then Harry’s trial and conviction for her murder, so soon afterwards? The Wizarding world had been almost brought to its knees by both announcements and everyone had fully expected the news to cause Ron to break cover and come home, ruining months of work. Draco had always thought Ron a soft touch and virtually spineless; he used to wonder how the man kept upright sometimes! No wonder then that Draco was the loudest voice in the office when expectations of Ron’s imminent return were voiced.

He was therefore also amongst the many in the Auror office that were shocked when there was no sign of Ron Weasley running home in the days and weeks after the announcement. Ron had continued to work in the service of the Dark wizard, ingratiating himself more and more, becoming more valuable to the evil bastard every day. Until, unexpectedly, at the end of August, the message came from Ron that all was in place to take the wizard down.

The Auror office had placed itself at the younger Weasley’s disposal and command and they had struck with precision and timing, based on Ron’s intelligence and plan. The Dark wizard, who had styled himself as the next Voldemort and had called himself Garro the Invincible, had been taken down, along with his cadre of minions, in a magical battle that lasted no more than ten minutes. Ron had duelled Garro himself.

Draco remembered finding Ron in the ruins of the wizard’s hideout, after the battle, surrounded by the shattered remains of tables and furniture and smouldering paper. During the fight a water main had been broken open and the lower level was slowly flooding. Ron had been knelt in several inches of water, like a broken puppet; his wand held limply in his hand, legs splayed beneath him and his hair matted with his own blood. The Polyjuice potion that Ron had been taking constantly during this investigation had worn off and he was himself once more. Cuts decorated his body from narrowly avoided curses and the water around him was tinted pink with curls and delicate lines of blood. Garro lay, insensible, in front of him, breathing shallowly.

Ron had turned his face towards Malfoy and the blond man had felt the flame-haired man’s terrible pain, deep within his soul. Draco hadn’t been able to make himself care about Harry, he knew what “the Chosen One” had done, after all. But he had cared about Hermione, felt terrible about what had happened to her.

Especially as he was one of only three people in the country who knew she was still alive and the full truth of what had happened.

As he had looked into Ron’s shattered eyes he read the depths of pain that the red-head had buried for the past two months in order to keep the investigation moving. The sorrow that he had bottled up long enough to finish the job. And he had almost told him the truth then and there; that Hermione was alive and recovering at Malfoy Manor, that Ron would be able to see her again.

“Is it true, Malfoy?” Ron had whispered, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the rushing water. “Is she really dead?”

Draco had held his nerve however, knowing that he couldn’t reveal the truth; he knew that Ron would stop at nothing to get to the bottom of what had happened. This was a new Ron; one he had never believed could have existed. This Ron could be dangerous if he knew the truth.

He crouched down and placed a gentle hand on Ron’s shoulder. “It’s true,” he had said, quietly, “she’s gone.”

A month later and Ron had returned to work, ready to begin putting together the case against Garro the Invincible, more commonly known as Nigel, from Norwich.

In truth, the case was so solid against the Dark Wizard—mostly thanks to Ron’s inside intelligence—that the Wizengamot convicted the man with barely any need to retire and consult. The case was rushed through and Garro/Nigel locked in Azkaban quicker than a greased Snitch, barely a week after Ron had returned to London.

As soon as they received the news, Draco had popped the cork on the bottle of champagne he had been saving for the occasion. Both he and Ron had been granted promotions for their work; Ron had also received an Order of Merlin, Third Class, for his determination and daring in remaining undercover. Draco was determined not to be too bitter that Weasley was the only one to get an award. At least he knew that it was his turn to go undercover next.

Sat on Draco’s desk, laughing at Ron’s anecdote, was a pretty blonde witch. Draco knew she was pretty, even though was a _little_ strange. He also knew, however, that Luna Lovegood was not as vacant and mad as she made herself out to be. She had been instrumental in the plan that took out Harry Potter. Potter had crossed too many lines in his relationship with Hermione, but when it had come to light, Luna had been the one to come up with the outline of the plan. She was very clever and very determined to protect her friends. Draco was thankful that Lucius’ Memory Charms ensured that she remembered nothing of the events.

The trio celebrated their victory for several hours—and several bottles too—before Draco announced that they had reached the last bottle. As Draco popped the cork, drunkenly trying to keep his grip on the bottle as it kicked slightly in his hand, a breeze blew. It lifted the corners of the paperwork, scattered over Draco’s desk, rustling them slightly. The blond wizard looked around, myopically, confused for the moment as there were no windows, and even though the door was open there was no way a breeze could find its way to this office, down so deep as it was. With eyes narrowed he cast a furtive glance into each of the corners. What he hoped to see he didn’t know; if she had defied his father’s instructions and come here then she would be covered in the Cloak, invisible until she chose to reveal herself. Merlin grant that she at least retain some semblance of sense not to do _that_!

Ron held up his glass, wiggling it to hurry him up with the drink. Luna glanced over and smiled at him too, then hiccoughed slightly. Draco opened his mouth to speak just as a stronger wind blew, dragging letters off of his desk and scattering them around the room. A creeping wave of dread wormed its way into Draco’s stomach and his skin began to burn, as if the temperature in the office had risen dramatically.

Sweat slicked his shirt to his back and he saw Luna’s large eyes open wider than ever as she stared around, terror seeming to grab her heart. Ron was twisting and turning, trying to see all around him, as if waiting for an attack from an unknown direction. There was a pulse—almost like a wave—that washed over the three of them and their stomachs turned, flopping in their torso and making them clutch onto nearby furniture.

As suddenly as it had come, the breeze died away again. Draco looked around, Luna and Ron smiled nervously at each other, their drunken state allowing their fear to gradually leak away. _Okay, nothing to worry about,_ Draco thought to himself, with a shaky sigh of relief, and started to walk forwards once more.

The lights flickered a scant second before the sound of Draco’s desk, shattering into kindling, deafened the occupants. Luna screamed in terror as the desk fell away from beneath her. She hit the ground, rolling and scrambling away from the broken mess. The stench of burnt flesh washed over the room, turning the blond man’s stomach once more as he staggered backwards, his back hitting the wall. The bottle fell from his nerveless hand, shattering on the ground. Ron threw himself away, with a cry of surprise, a low desk catching the back of his legs and tripping him. With his reflexes dulled with alcohol he didn’t stand a chance and it sprawled him out on the floor.

“The fuck was that…?” The ginger-haired wizard pulled himself up, wide-eyed and staring at the desk.

Lying on top of the shattered remains was a body. Its arms were folded over its chest, the bare skin badly burnt, charred in places. The clothes it was dressed in were strange, not just in style but also in material. The bulk of it seemed to be made out of leather, sewn roughly with thick cords. It looked like some kind of primitive armour! The clothes underneath were normal; an old shirt and jeans, burnt and torn in many places.

Luna huddled by the door, hands over her mouth and her large eyes open as wide as they would go. Her breathing was rapid, the puffs of air making a whimpering sound.

Draco stepped forward, his shoes crunching in the shattered glass, feeling suddenly a lot more sober. “How…?” He glanced up, seeing the light swaying gently from its chain on the ceiling. The paintwork was faded, cracked and old but it had been like that for ages; there was no indication that anything had just fallen through it!

“Malfoy,” Ron said, standing and drawing his wand in an unsteady hand, “who the fuck _is_ that?”

”How the hell should I know, Weasley? The fucker just fell through my ceiling!” Draco hissed, drawing his wand and approaching the body. He stared at his own hand until it stopped shaking: this was not the time to lose control!

It was difficult to know if the body was male or female; the arms were crossed over its chest and a lot of its hair was burned away. Whatever colour the hair had been before, it was now black and burned.

“Careful, Draco,” Luna said, joining the pair, “it could be covered in Trixiebells. They like their offerings burnt…”

“Luna, shut up.” Draco’s voice was tight and curt. He nudged the body with his toe and the trio staggered back in horror. The arms slipped apart, dropping to lie on the floor with a wet smack. There was a faint tinkling sound as a golden device slid down the chest, hanging on a golden chain. It was an hourglass, a Time-Turner, embedded with crystals, sigils carved into the metal; the Time-Turner was clearly homemade. The body’s head lolled to the side, facing them fully and they got a good look at the face for the first time.

Luna gave another cry, this time of horrified recognition. Ron covered his mouth and swore softly. Draco swallowed hard, recognising both the body and the Time-Turner his father had given to Hermione this morning. They looked at each other for a long moment before one of them finally spoke.

“It’s… it’s you...”

 

* * *

 

HERMIONE watched her friends—Draco, Ron and Luna—all of them celebrating their victorious court case. Hidden beneath Harry’s invisibility cloak she was unnoticed, completely undetected. Several times she had taken a hesitant step forward, wanting to just reach out and touch one of them, Ron or Luna, wanting them to know she was alive still. They didn’t know she hadn’t been killed, that a box, weighted with stones, had been buried. They had cried over an empty grave and she wanted them to see her again.

It wasn’t possible though. She was dead as far as they were concerned and she had to remain so.

Luna knew, somewhere in the depths of her mind, that Hermione still lived, but Lucius’ Memory Charm hid it from her consciousness. Hermione was grateful in a way and hoped that Luna stayed ignorant of what she had done.

It had saved Hermione’s life, but it had also condemned Harry to death. The bushy-haired witch hoped that her strange friend never remembered the details of the plot she had hatched with Lucius Malfoy’s help.

Looking down, Hermione fiddled with the ‘gift’ she had been given by the Malfoy patriarch. The golden chain was gathered around her wrist; she was unwilling to wear it around her neck until she was ready. This was a one way journey, unless she succeeded, and she wasn’t willing to start it any earlier than necessary. The delicate hourglass glittered up at her, the swirling grains of magical sand sparkling in the light.

A homemade Time-Turner! It _had_ to be homemade, it looked nothing like the one that she had had in her Third Year.

Lucius hadn’t been very forthcoming with details, just saying that the Time-Turner would take her where she needed to go and to empty her mind when she used it. She needed to be clear of all excess thoughts and focus only on Malfoy Manor; the Time-Turner would do the rest. He wouldn’t even tell her how far she was going back and whether it would bring her back again; only that her only way home was to succeed!

Then again, was there really anything for her here anymore? Harry was dead, or as good as; simply an empty husk, thanks to the Dementor’s Kiss. Hermione’s friends thought her dead, as did the whole of the Wizarding world. If she ever revealed herself… Harry’s case would be reviewed, her friends would be investigated and the Memory Charms found and removed, probably. Then _they_ would be prosecuted and imprisoned. Lucius would probably find a way to shed his own culpability, slithering away like a snake to avoid losing his precious influence.

As for Hermione, what would they do to her? What would they do to a woman they thought was a ghost? She was just as guilty as Luna in this. She knew what her friend had been planning, at least in some small way. The full extent had been hidden from her, and once the Memory Charms had been put in place, Lucius had changed the plan to suit his own needs. She had to hope that it had never been her friend’s idea to kill Harry, only to imprison him, to allow Hermione to get away from him. The elder Malfoy had twisted the case against Harry by throwing in the Imperius Curse and creation of an Inferius; a crime which had resulted in the final sentence. She wished that the Cruciatus Curse had been Lucius’ addition, but that had been Harry, torturing her in the height of his rage when she tried to leave again. Hermione may not have been privy to the full plan, had mistakenly thought it had been abandoned with Seamus' hospitalisation, but she was at least as culpable as Luna.

No, far better that she take this ‘opportunity’ and just disappear. She would discharge any semblance of obligation she had to the Malfoy family and escape the last lingering feelings of her guilt and pain. She would be in a new time, a new place; free at last.

She shifted her bag, slung over her shoulder. It was a small, plain bag, but as with her beaded bag all those years ago, contained a surprising amount; most of her worldly possessions in fact. Looking up, she watched as Draco moved to the cabinet in the corner and pulled out a fresh bottle of champagne.

Time seemed to slow down, elongating into an eternity as she studied his face, memorising everything about him. Her gaze drifted to Luna, to Ron. She knew them all, had spent her entire life with them, it felt like. She watched her friends for the last time, committing their forms to her memory, knowing in her heart that she would never see them again.

Swallowing hard she closed her eyes, feeling tears spill down her cheeks, and slipped the golden chain over her head. She flicked her finger across the Time-Turner, the digit catching one of the bulbs, spinning the hourglass in its frame. As the device began to turn it emitted a minute hum, just at the edge of her hearing.

A wind rose from nowhere, swirling gently about her ankles and Hermione watched tiny dust bunnies gather and pivot around her feet. The hems of her jeans began to flick back and forth in the breeze that climbed up her legs, pressing the material more firmly to her calves. She was the centre of a tiny, gentle cyclone that began to get faster.

The hourglass continued to spin, speeding up until it was a terrifying blur. Hermione realised, with mounting horror, that this device was taking her a long, long time away! She studied it intently, trying without success to work out just how many times it was turning; she could only guess but was sure that it was turning many times a second.

The device began to vibrate in her hand, trembling with the force of the hourglass’ rotation, tiny sparks of blue, green and red, flicking off of the points and crackling around her hand. The stroboscopic effect, where the hourglass continued to spin but seemed to slow and reverse, set Hermione’s heart racing faster and she knew that days—maybe even weeks—passed with every single second. Worms of electrical energy began to creep up her limbs, surrounding her, even as the room began to fade from her sight. The wind increased, the dust lifting to surround her, blinding her in a curtain of grey and primary coloured electricity. Her clothing was being whipped by the wind, plastering itself to her body, the ends snapping with the force.

Then it began to burn.

As the last vestiges of the room was taken from her sight, the feeling of heat started to sweep over her. It flowed like a tide, burning then receding again and again, hotter and hotter. Against her will she began to moan in pain, her skin tender and sore against her clothes. The heat emanated from the Time-Turner and Hermione found herself unable to let go of the golden frame, her hand locked around it in a death grip.

She couldn’t release it, even when the hourglass, the golden frame, and the skin on the back of her hand, caught fire.

The flames spread fast, hungrily devouring her clothes, blackening the skin of her arm. It spread onto her neck, creeping over her head and down her body. She began to scream, as the walls of reality began to dissolve and run like water, confounding her senses as she struggled to hold onto her sanity; flames in colours so loud that her ears began to bleed, burning smells that hurt her eyes. She could feel her screams through her skin, as her body dissolved into a colourless rainbow. The floor crumbled away and she fell upwards, into the yawning, explosion of blackened oblivion.

 

**End of Part 1**


	6. Remorse Is For The Dead

** Part 2: Flames Burn To Ash **

 

There’s a bad storm blowing in,

And most of us won’t make it.

The wreckage of your past,

Means nothing now, forsake it.

**_Broken Hands_ **

**_~ Lamb of God ~_ **

 

Of thousands of others, nearer the centre of the explosion, there was no trace. They vanished. The theory … is that the atomic heat was so great that they burned instantly to ashes - except that there were no ashes.

**~ Wilfred Burchett ~**

 

War. War never changes. Since the dawn of human kind—when our ancestors first discovered the killing power of rock and bone—blood has been spilled in the name of everything; from God, to justice, to simple psychotic rage.

**~ unknown ~**

 

 

**Chapter 5 - Remorse Is For The Dead**

_Pile it higher and higher._

_Light the match, start the fire._

_Level this place until nothing’s left_

_And take us with it._

**_~ Lamb of God ~_ **

**????, ???? - ????**

 

SOOTHING winds stroked their way across her skin. It was warm and brought the faint smell of earth to her nostrils; an acrid smell, as if the ground had been burned in the past. Her hand tingled with pins and needles as she began to realise that she still _had_ limbs and attempted to move them.

The ground pressed against her body and she mentally oriented herself; she was face down, outside somewhere. It was daytime, possibly summer because of the warmth. In blackness, her eyes refusing to open, she moved her hands inwards, palms brushing across gravel and loose stone, dry grass tickling her skin. She attempted to push downwards, trying to lift herself, but her arms merely trembled, refusing to lift and support her weight.

With a groan of frustration she pushed herself sideways, managing to roll onto her back. Her eyelids reddened and the warmth of the sun heated her face. Rubbing the back of her hand over her face she tried again to open her eyes, succeeding this time.

The sky was blurred and bright, so bright that she had to squint against its brilliance. Gradually her eyes began to adjust as she peered through her fingers, clearing and focusing steadily.

It wasn’t a normal summer sky, she realised. It was far from blue though the streaks of grey were certainly clouds. The sky above was brown, she realised with a frown. It was a dirty brown, like old dishwater sloshed over cobblestones. The sky was almost burned in appearance.

Groaning in pain, her back screaming in protest, Hermione gripped her thighs, engaged her aching stomach muscles, and hauled herself up to a sitting position. Eyes closed against the pain she hugged her knees for a moment, waiting for the world to stop spinning and the throbbing in her head to subside. Slowly her stomach settled into its proper place and she opened her eyes.

A cry of denial burst from her before she could stop it, her hands clapping across her mouth instantly. A low mewling noise—the sound of someone whimpering in fear—reached her ears and it took a few moments before she realised that it was her. Tears sprang to her eyes as she looked upon the world in which she had found herself.

The ground beneath her was bare stone, rocks scoured of earth, and brittle clumps of dry grass scattered sparsely around. No colour greeted her eyes but brown and grey. The land before her dropped away, leaving her near the top of a hill, the slope running at a steep angle, littered with more boulders and the bare, blackened sticks that once were trees. The land before her was lumpen and deformed, as if the Earth itself had tried to shake off this reality. It was scoured of colour, shades from a dead man’s palette decorating the landscape. Each trunk of every tree was sheared of branches, leaving them upright poles of charred and dead wood. A fire had raged here at some time, clearly powerful enough to have destroyed all life. Nothing moved in the barren wasteland before her.

To her right Hermione saw signs that life had once existed here; a small hamlet, barely more than twenty structures. A twisted and broken road ran through the centre, to join the one from the main road. This second road meandered its way into the distance, before dropping into a dip in the ground. The broken road seemed to continue on after this dip, which made Hermione think that there had been a bridge there at one time.

Every single house and building in her vicinity had been at least partially destroyed. The most complete house was a two storey, detached house, the upper floor exposed to the acrid air, its roof missing in places and walls demolished. The lower level was intact apart from one wall, and even the door retained some colour, a splash of blood red against a dead background. The worst affected house was little more than a pile of rubble, surrounded by ragged walls on four sides. The centre of the structure was a haphazard jumble of bricks and debris, piping and battered, broken appliances jutting out of the rubble.

In the centre of the hamlet lay a children’s play park; a swing set, a slide and a roundabout. The once cheerful paintwork was burned away, the bare metal exposed. The swing seats themselves were missing, the remainder of the chains hanging, rusted and broken. The slight breeze stirred them, causing them to sway gently.

At the edge of the park, the blackened wreckage of a car lay on its roof, wheels missing, the interior a burnt mess. The rear of it looked strange to Hermione’s eyes, not like the normal cars she had seen driving around in her youth. Everything about this made no sense, but the car reminded her of ones she had seen in old pictures of her grandparents’ time. Pictures from America and the 50s, long and low, all fins and sweeping lines. It looked terribly out of place in an English town, even a blasted and destroyed one.

That’s if she was even in England anymore… It was something she hadn’t considered.

Hauling herself to her feet, feeling the weight of the Time-Turner tug against her neck, Hermione looked around. There was no end to the devastation. To her left there was a road, a large one it seemed to have been at one time. Now though it was broken and shattered, large gaps showing the ground beneath and the rusted husks of other vehicles littering the carriageway. The stone, central reservation, at the centre of the broken dual carriageway, was likewise broken—shattered in places—and covered in graffiti. She followed the lifeless slab of concrete with her eyes, seeing the remains of the road that led to the destroyed hamlet, meandering in front of her position. The main road continued off into the distance, where, partially hidden behind a dusty haze, was the outline of a large settlement, possibly even a city. Larger buildings reached for the heavens, creating shapes in the burnt sky, skeletal fingers reaching for freedom from the dead planet.

Behind her the land rose steeply, and she hurried up the slope, abandoning the sorrowful sight of that dead play park, hoping to see further and finally catch sight of civilisation. She reached the summit and gave a grunt of despair, half laugh, half sob.

The land stretched away until it reached the horizon, every part of it undulating, broken and dead. The wilderness was a burnt and charred waste, remains of buildings visible in the murky air, sundered roads snaking their way through the carcass of a country. No colour was visible anywhere. There was no sign of any living thing. No birds in the sky, no animals on the ground. She might as well have been the last person alive, the only speck of life in this barren land.

The dejected witch sank to her knees and gave in to her sorrow, her tears spilling down her cheeks. Sobs shook her slight frame and she curled in on herself, hunching over in the dirt, smelling the faint scent that spoke of fire and death. The wind sighed in Hermione’s ear, a low, mournful tone that made her shiver. Wiping her eyes she sat up, wrapping her jacket tighter about herself, wishing Lucius had warned her about this place. Where the fuck was she? This was _clearly_ not Malfoy Manor!

Not knowing what else to do, Hermione stood and stumped her way back down the slope. She found her bag and quickly checked it, making sure that everything was okay and the bag itself was undamaged. The Time-Turner still hung securely around her neck, and not wanting to risk any further journeys, she lifted it off and placed it in her bag. Close by she found Harry's cloak, where it must have fallen after she arrived, and she tucked that in the bag too. Satisfied that all was in order, the witch set her jaw, pulled her wand from her wrist holster and faced the tiny hamlet. The nearest sign of civilisation was the best place to start, she reasoned, and this was it. Her mind made up, she quickly set her feet to the slope and half stumbled, half slid down the gravelly hill. She quickly reached the base, stepping onto the broken remnants of the road that led to the town.

Brushing herself down she began a cautious approach, her ears straining for sound, her eyes scanning everywhere for danger. The only sound was the wind, its desolate tone lowering Hermione’s spirits, and the occasional rattle of small stones, disturbed by her journey, spilling from the slope behind her. The road rose upwards at a low angle until it reached the first structure in the little village. Slowly Hermione walked through between the nearly-destroyed structures, unsure where to go first. Her steps were drawn, inexorably, towards the play-park and the larger two-storey house on the opposite side.

The play-park was littered with broken bottles, and rusted tin cans. Water damaged posters were visible in places, their writing and pictures obscured by mould and tears in the paper. The breeze playfully flicked at the paper, flapping the ends back and forth enticingly and the witch stooped to pull the page towards herself, lifting it free and turning it over.

The faded blue of the poster was blackened in places with mould and char. Above a wide bar of red that ran across the middle third of the page, in curling calligraphy, were the words: “Delicious Refreshing”. The red bar proclaimed for the reader to “Drink Nuka-Cola!”

“What the hell is a ‘Nuka-Cola’?” she muttered. “Doesn’t sound very appetising…” She trailed off, somehow disliking the sound of her own voice in the near-silence. It was disconcerting and sent a prickle of fear rippling between her shoulder blades. The paper slipped from her fingers, and she watched the wind catch it, tumbling it over and over across the land. Eventually she lost sight of it amongst the stones and turned her attention once more to her surroundings. Nothing moved, anywhere. Was there _anyone_ alive in this place? What had happened here? It couldn’t be that the whole country was like this? This must have been a localised event, something nearby had been hit with something, but if she travelled far enough she would find life once more.

She moved on from the park, the quiet sound of the rusty metal, moving and creaking in the breeze, stirring her imagination. Images of this place in the past danced in her imagination, ghosts of children playing on swings, shouting and laughing. Where were the children now? Had they been playing when this… fire—explosion?—had swept over the town?

Flickers of movement teased her peripheral vision, but nothing except discarded and burnt paper stirred when she looked. There was no life here, and it was only her mind playing tricks, seeing things that weren’t there.

Looking through the shattered wall of the building, Hermione saw the jumbled pile of bricks within. Pipes and debris filled the void within; it appeared that the upper floor had collapsed at some point, bringing down everything above, and time had buried it in shifting sands and dirt. The head of a bath jutted vertically out of the pile, tarnished and rusted taps still attached to the end, the waste pipe and plastic attachments pointing at the sky. Something in the small void caught Hermione’s eye, and she carefully picked her way through the rubble towards the ancient bath.

Bricks slipped as she stepped carefully, the sound of them grating against one another loud in the silence. Almost crawling, dropping to all fours to minimise the risk, the witch made it up the small slope and peered inside.

It was a bag, homemade from some sort of primitively cured leather. She reached in past the bricks and got hold of the strap, pulling her prize towards her. It was heavier than she expected.

With it in her lap she set her back against the pile of bricks and loosened the leather thongs that held the bag closed. Within she found two plastic bottles, filled with a filthy, brown liquid. Beneath them were three strange devices; they looked like syringes, but with metal crossbars over the plastic cylinder, wires coming out of the sides, and joining up with a pressure gauge above it. The plastic tube was filled with a dusky red liquid and a short, thin cap stuck out of the bottom of the device. Hermione gingerly plucked at the cap and it slid off easily, revealing a hypodermic needle beneath it. It _was_ a syringe! What was with the pressure gauge though? The needle pointed to an area just over halfway around the dial. There were no numbers visible; only red, yellow, and green sections. The needle registered that this syringe was over half… full? Half pressurised? Half likely to blow up in her hand?

Holding the device at arms length, Hermione considered it carefully. It _looked_ like a syringe… some kind of medicine, perhaps. She noticed the there was a point, between the needle and the body of the device, that could move.

 _So…_ she thought to herself, _I stick this in my arm… that depresses the needle, releases the pressure and injects the liquid into my body… simple._  She glanced at her arm, then back at the device. Giving a snort of laughter, she gently placed the cap over the bare needle. _Yeah, sure… Not without a lot more information!_

Setting the three syringes to one side again she looked into the satchel. The only thing left was a box, about six inches in length, one or two deep, and about two high. It was heavy! Carefully she opened it up, and was greeted with four rows of circles, partially filling the box. Plucking at one of the circles the witch withdrew the long, tapered cylinder. “Bullets?” Her eyebrows rose as she considered this. _Why was there a box of bullets here? Why would there be bullets, when most Muggles had no access to guns?_ Again, she considered the possibility that she wasn’t in Kansas anymore… _Or maybe I am_ , she thought with another grunt of laughter, hence the bullets.

There was no gun, so the bullets were useless to her. Not that she knew how to use a gun, even if she had wanted to. Besides, she had her magic, and that would be infinitely more useful out here. Still, finder keepers, she thought, tucking all of items back into the satchel. She pushed this into her own bag, where it vanished into the magically enhanced depths.

After a short pause she reached back in, fumbling in the depths until she found one of the bottles of brown liquid. Thirst had started to make itself known, under the hot sun, and this was the only fluid she had found so far.

Opening the bottle she took a tentative sniff of the contents, before holding it aside and gagging. “Merlin’s beard, that smells disgusting!” It had a rotten smell to it, like sulphur, and she nearly poured it away. She stopped at the last second and pulled out her wand.

Flicking it in a languid ‘S’ shape she whispered “ _Scorgify!”_. Nothing happened. The liquid within remained brown. It still smelled horrible. Hermione huffed in annoyance. “ _Augamenti!”_ she said, pointing her wand to the side.

Nothing. Not even the tingle of magic flowing through her. Her magic had left her!

She stared at her wand, as if it had turned into a snake. “ _Wingadium Leviosa!_ ” she said, louder now, with a practiced swish and flick at the bottle.

The bottle remained on her palm.

Hermione felt her chest tighten in fear as she looked around again, her breathing hitching slightly in her chest, tears appearing in the corners of her eyes as her situation become painfully clear to her. That prickle of fear was working its way through her body, stronger now. She had only a little food in her bag, mainly snacks and nothing substantial, with one bottle of clean water. She was alone, unarmed, defenceless almost.

What was she supposed to do now? She had no idea where she was, no clue how far away she was from Malfoy Manor, or even if she was in England still!

Tears trickled down her cheeks, stinging her eyes and cutting tracks through the dust that had accumulated on her face. A sob broke through her reserve, bringing with it more tears. She tucked her knees up to her chest, resting her forehead on them. Her arms hugged them tightly as she struggled to stop herself breaking down.

She sat that way for some time until she got herself under control once more.

"Don't be stupid, Hermione," she muttered to herself, "tears are going to get you nowhere fast!" She stood abruptly, wiping her cheeks and giving herself a shake. Sitting and wallowing in despair wasn't working. She had to take stock, check her supplies, try and think back and work out what went wrong.

More focussed, a loose plan in mind, she clambered off the pile of bricks and moved to a clearer spot within the ruin of the old house. Pulling her bag from her shoulder she began to reach inside and withdraw the contents.

First came the satchel she had found and she put this to the side, spilling its contents out and grouping the items separately. Next came her wash bag; toothbrush, paste, soap, flannel, makeup, hair brush, several hair bands, nail file, clippers, tweezers. This ended up to the right of her, in a pile she mentally thought of as, probably, disposable. Honestly, she looked as though she was stuck in some sort of wasteland, without a living soul in it! Who was she going to get made up for? The wash bag went to the middle. She might forego makeup, but she would be damned if she was going to stop brushing her teeth!

After this came the Time-Turner and a small bag of food and water; a couple of sandwiches, two apples, a banana, a portion of nuts and seeds, a bag of crisps, one bottle of mineral water. Not a lot, maybe enough for a couple of days if she was very careful and rationed herself. She glanced at the bottles of dirty liquid and prayed she could find more clean water soon.

Clothes; a couple of changes there, as well as Harry's Invisibility cloak. Two pairs of jeans, four tops, a warm jacket, assorted underwear, and three pairs of shoes. Those ended up in the middle along with the food bag.

Out of the bag came books. Textbooks, novels, magazines. With an agonised sigh she placed these next to the makeup bag. It looked like reading was not going to be a pastime for a while! After a long moment she selected a few of the books; one textbook and a couple of novels she hadn't read yet, as well as one of the magazines, and slid them nearer the central pile. She wasn't a complete savage yet, she thought with a wry smile.

She reached into the bag, up to her shoulder now, feeling around at the bottom. "Come on, where is it?" she hissed, through gritted teeth. "Aha! Gotcha!" she crowed, retrieving another bag, this one about the size of a large purse. Gently placing it on the ground she undid the straps and buckles that bound it, and opened the gatefold covers. Small vials of liquid were stored in small pouches, each one a potion, neatly labelled in her own handwriting. Healing draughts, sleeping potions to help her sleep, stimulant shots to keep her awake, and a couple of others. She had a small collection, no more than three or four of each. She checked them all carefully, making sure that none of the vials had cracked. Satisfied, she put them in the middle pile.

One last delve into the bag produced a large, lightly coloured, tartan bag. It was long and heavy, so she stood to give her space to lift it. Placing one foot on her shoulder bag, to keep it on the ground, she pulled her camping gear out. Within the bag would be her tent, pegs, mallet, sleeping bag, camping stove, lamp, fire starting equipment, a few blocks of kindling, and some dried wood branches.

Surveying all her worldy possessions, Hermione gave a small grunt. There was nothing there that was going to revolutionise her situation, but she had shelter, some food and water, means to make a fire. Things could be worse, she could have no means of using the magic that was one of her strongest assets... "Oh, yeah... that's right..." she said, sarcastically, staring at her wand. Little more than a decorative stick now, she thought, bitterly. Why had her magic abandoned her? She tried a few basic cantrips, going back to some of the very first things she ever learned, even before school had officially started.

Nothing worked. The magic simply was not there.

Was it her? The Time-Turner? Was it this place she was in? Frustration and anger bubbled up in her, the urge to just snap this... this twig in two, just throw it away, welled up. She held it between both hands, watching as it flexed, waiting for the splintering sound.

“English Oak… eleven and three quarter inches long. Core of unicorn hair. Wands made of English Oak, demand of their witch or wizard, strength, commitment and loyalty, and above all… Courage! This is a very loyal wand, Miss Granger, and will never falter in its dedication to you.”

Mr Olivander’s words to her, when she had persuaded him to provide her with one more wand—before he retired—echoed through her mind again.

“The core of unicorn hair bolsters that loyalty, and a wand like this will never work as well for another… even if taken by force! Your new wand, Hermione, will demand as much from you, as you will of it. A mishandled wand will not respond well. The core gets… ehh… I guess ‘depressed’ is probably the best way of describing it… Treat it well and it will not let you down when you truly need it.”

Hermione gazed at her wand, remembering once more that moment that the wand had chosen her, in Mr Olivander’s home. The feel of the magic flowing through her, the connection she had felt to the wand, as it greeted her, bonded to her. It was huge part of her. Without a wand… who was she?

“Well, old friend,” she whispered, cradling the wand gently. “We’ve got some tough times ahead of us it seems. All these new surroundings seem to have given you a bit of stage fright, but I can’t… I won’t abandon you now. You’ve been a good friend to me, for a long time. We’ll get through this, somehow, and together we’ll work out what it is that’s stopping us making magic.”

A short time later saw her on her feet again, bag packed with all but the disposable pile, determination in her eyes. Her plan, such as it was, was to scout around for a while, try and get a better idea of where she was. She would stay close to the ruins of the village, and use it as a safe place to return when it started to get dark. She was fairly sure she could get a fire started, even without magic; she remembered a few of the things that her father had taught her about survival, when they had camped in the Forest of Dean. She sipped from her bottle of fresh water as she walked, careful not to drink too much, but keeping the thirst away in the heat. The sun had passed overhead a short while ago, marking the day as half done. She decided that she would scout for another two or three hours, and then head back and make camp for the night.

 

* * *

 

An hour later saw that plan change.

A low wall caught her attention, as she headed out from the village for the third time, heading roughly south. She believed it was south, at least; her orienteering skills were not the best, but the sun was on her right as it sunk lower, and so she was relatively confident.

The wall was made of large stone blocks, roughly hewn, and surrounded a large, open area. She could see more of the wall about thirty feet across from her, and it stretched another thirty or forty either side. There was the remains of a tumbled down building in the centre, and to her tired eyes, it looked strangely familiar.

“This was a church… I think,” she muttered, hopping over the wall and moving closer. It was still possible to see the layout from what remained of the bricks; the narrow entrance, the longer, wide body of the building. Rubble filled the middle with remnants of wooden benches visible in places.

The remains of the building resonated with her, dragging up old memories from years ago. A sad event… a funeral.

“Fred!” she cried, abruptly, all of the pieces falling into place. “Oh, my God… this is the church where Fred was buried! I’m…I’m in…” Her hands went to her mouth in horror as she put it all together. She turned on the spot, seeing the church as she remembered it, the graves to its rear, the low wall surrounding it. The path that ran along its side would lead her back to the small village, her campsite—the village that was now a shattered ruin.

This was Ottery St. Catchpole!

Why was she here? What had happened to this place?

“The Burrow!” she cried.

Hurriedly she looked around, trying to orient herself in this new landscape. Slowly she managed to pick out a few remembered landmarks; the hill behind the church, the direction of the path, the shallow groove that must have been the village stream before it dried up… it was difficult as the land had changed, but eventually she thought she had her bearings and set out again.

She continued southwards, setting Stoatshead Hill at her back. The hill, at least, still looked the same as it had, and she now knew that that was where the Time-Turner had deposited her earlier. The steep slopes had once been full of rabbits and covered in soft grass. She remembered the climb to reach to summit in time to catch the Portkey, an old boot that had taken her and her friends to the Quidditch World Cup final. It seemed a lifetime ago now.

After a brisk walk she reached the hills that hid the Burrow from view, seeing the blasted and burnt remains of trees scattered over the slope.

It was here that she encountered her first signs of life.

Halfway up the slope, resting against one of the trees, was a person. They were sat with their back to the slope, facing uphill. They were not moving.

Hermione almost called out, but stopped herself in time, something telling her that this was wrong. Gripping her wand she approached, carefully watching her feet to avoid any loose stones or charred twigs. Stealthily she stole upwards, hiding behind the blackened trunks and peering round, looking for anything else moving on the slope. All was still.

It was a man, or had been a man. He was clearly dead, his head lolled back, and there was a large, messy slash across his chest and stomach, like he had been struck with a large blade.

 _Or worse_ , she thought, _something with claws…_

His clothes were primitive; torn cloth and leather, sewn roughly together to form something that resembled armour. It hadn't been enough to stop whatever had attacked him though. The material around his torso had been torn away completely.

Hermione gagged as she got closer, smelling the foul scent of rotten flesh, and seeing the gaping hole in his belly, the stump of his right leg that ended just below the knee.

He had been something's dinner, but it appeared to have been a while ago. Whatever it was can't have had a big appetite. _Or maybe it hadn't killed him for food..._ That thought made her heart skip slightly, and she glanced around, half expecting to see some kind of ravening monster creeping up on her position.

The wind blew still, sighing mournfully through the burnt scrub grass, but there was nothing else moving out here but her.

Swallowing past the fear in her throat, the witch moved closer, sleeve over her nose and mouth to block out some of the stench. The body was covered in tattoos; crude, simplistic symbols, most likely done with basic tools. Certainly not with anything like the professional gun the tattoo artist had used for hers. His hair was clipped close to the skull apart from a narrow crest that ran from front to back in the centre. The mohawk was dyed a dirty red colour and the hair looked greasy and matted with dried blood. A chain ran from his nose to his ear, the other ear pierced multiple times with studs and spikes. A leather bandolier was slung over one shoulder, looping around his torso, pouches, bound with string thongs, hanging from it. A large metal bar, spiked on each end, lay nearby, along with a satchel, similar to the one Hermione had found back at the village.

Reaching around the body she pulled the bag over to her. Being this close to the corpse was horrible, and she was quick to move away once she had a firm grip.

Upending the bag she poured the contents onto the ground, hoping to find something that might help her understand the place she was in. Sifting through them she found a bottle of liquid; clear, clean, and after a sniff and a tentative sip, confirmed as water. It had a metallic taste to it, but it was clean!

The rest of the bag held an assortment of strange items, some of it junk. A book, burned beyond use; an empty, bent tin can, no label or markings; a bone, carved to a sharp point with a leather strip wrapped around the other end. It would do as a makeshift knife, useful to shave wood for tinder if necessary. There was a number of bullets there too, eight in all. Hermione pulled the box she had found earlier out of her bag, shifting to sit more comfortably. They were the same shape and size, so she tucked the new ones into the box and placed it back in her bag.

“Never know…” she muttered, under her breath. “Might come in handy… somehow.”

She slid the bone knife into a pocket of her jacket, and gingerly disentangled the bandolier from the body.

“Sorry… sorry,” she whispered, grimacing as the man slid away from her and slumped to the floor.

With a slight shudder she fished through the pouches, pulling out some frayed string, a pile of old  bottlecaps, and something that appeared to be food. The name “Fancy Lad Snack Cakes” was emblazoned on the packaging within a red shape with a tied bow beneath it. She flipped the package over and read the assertion that the cake contained 'A big delight in every bite!’

_Yeah, okay, we'll see about that…_

She popped the snack cake into another pocket and stood again, leaving the string and the bottle caps on the ground. After a moment she crouched again and plucked the metal bar from the ground. If there was something around that could do the damage done to this man, then it was better to be safe than sorry, she mused, as she dropped the bar into her bag. Now she had a couple of weapons, at least.

She stood there for a moment, not sure whether she should say a few words for the man, or attempt to bury him. She blew out a breath and decided against it. She had neither the time, nor the means, to dig a grave, and couldn't spare the energy either.

“I'm sorry… uh… sorry that you were killed…” she said to the body, deciding to at least say something. “Um… rest in peace, I guess?” It didn't seem like much.

She shrugged helplessly and turned away, clearing her throat and continuing up the slope. She had only walked a short way when she heard a low humming noise ahead of her. Peering upslope she saw what had happened to the man's lower leg.

It was lying on the ground, near the top of the hill, surrounded by a small cloud of flies. Crouching over the leg was also a large fly. 'Large’ wasn't a big enough word for this bug though; it was at least a foot long, large clawed legs, with spines along their length, lined its sides. Its abdomen was large and swollen, pulsing in time with its movements.

Hermione stared at it, shocked at the size, but almost pleased to see further signs of life out here. Why was it so big, compared to the other flies? Cautiously she moved closer, studying it as it bobbed and swayed over the leg. It dropped to the floor, its mandibles tearing a chunk of flesh from the leg, and lifting into the air again. Its mouth parts chewed frantically as it hovered there. It turned slightly, its large, multifaceted eyes seeming to look downhill.

Hermione got the feeling that it had seen her, and froze in place, one leg forward, her wand gripped in her hand. She stayed that way for a full minute, just waiting and watching.

Abruptly, with a loud buzz, the giant fly lifted higher, its abdomen lifting slightly and pulsing. A small, black pellet squirted out of the end and shot in the witch's direction. Startled, she threw her head back, automatically lifting her wand and casting a shield charm.

Nothing happened, and the pellet struck her on the wrist. The sharp pain caused her to cry out and she stared in horror at the spiky bug now stuck to her right arm. It looked like a swollen caterpillar, covered in sharp spines. Its mandibles were moving, attempting to get at her flesh. With a cry of revulsion she grabbed her wand out of her right hand, and stabbed at it, flicking it off and on to the floor. The wound throbbed slightly, and the skin around it burned, already turning an angry red colour.

She flinched back as another larva flicked past her face. The giant fly was moving closer, facing in her direction, weaving and bobbing across the hill as it moved. Another pulse of its abdomen sent a third missile her way, then a fourth.

“Shit!” she cried, ducking and putting a tree trunk between them. Another larva splattered against the wood. “Aggressive little bastard, aren't you?”

She moved around the trunk as the fly buzzed noisily into view again, keeping out of its line of fire. A spiked projectile whistled past her ear and she ducked instinctively, and then threw herself to the ground completely as another one flew at her.

The bug was smart! The first shot had flushed her out, and the second had been sent at the place she was likely to be next.

Rolling across the ground, Hermione avoided another missile, and grabbed a rock. Glancing up she clocked the bug's location and threw it as hard as she could.

The creature swerved, and the rock sailed away down the hill. Regaining its balance it aimed for the human again, but it was gone from sight. The fly buzzed loudly, seemingly frustrated at losing its prey. Weaving left and right it worked its way back upslope, towards the place it had last seen the human; a small cluster of burned trunks and some rocks. It was here somewhere…

With an animalistic cry, Hermione threw herself out from behind a larger rock, the bone knife in hand. She leapt through the air, grabbing the fly by one wing and swinging the knife at its head. The sharp point plunged through one of its eyes, the faceted globe popping with a sickening sound. The fly dropped to the ground, flapping its free wing frantically, its body twitching and spasming. Hermione struck again and again; stabbing the creature's abdomen, its head, severing the wing she was holding, again into the abdomen. She lost herself in the panic, needing the thing to just die and stop fighting.

Eventually she realised that it was wasn’t moving and backed away from it, dropping the knife and wiping her hands on her jeans, trying to get the feeling of its wing off of her skin. It had felt awful; greasy, quivering. The witch shuddered in disgust, staring at the perforated bug, daring it to move again, her chest hitching with her rapid gasps for breath.

It was definitely dead, she decided, her breathing starting to slow; her heart continued to hammer from the adrenaline. Picking up the knife, she wiped it across the trunk of the nearest tree, removing the black blood from the blade before tucking it back into her pocket. She checked her wrist, inspecting the wound from the first larva. It didn't look too bad, just a few small puncture wounds; it wasn't bleeding anymore.

“Ok… giant bugs… bad! Shitting hell!” she said, under her breath, leaning forward and placing her hands on her knees. “Can't wait to meet the rest of the wildlife!”

Starting feel a little better she gave a small laugh. _The great war hero, Hermione Granger, bested the terrifying monster, emerging victorious from the fight!_ It was a long way from duelling Dark wizards, but it was a victory nonetheless. The incongruity of the situation made her laugh again, and soon she found herself giggling. It wasn't that funny, she realised, but that just made her laugh even harder. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she sank to the ground, clutching her sides. “Oh Merlin, if only they could see me now!” she cackled.

She sat there for a little while longer, wiping the tears from her cheeks and getting herself under control again as the adrenaline began to recede. Eventually the giggles faded and she walked back to the rocks to retrieve her bag. Plucking her bottle of water from inside, she took a big gulp, the liquid cooling the fire in her chest. Feeling better, she replaced the half full bottle, and continued uphill, towards where she hoped the Burrow was.

Cresting the hill, she looked down the slope, into the small valley that had hidden the Weasley family home. There was a building down there, but it didn't resemble the Burrow at all.


	7. Foot To The Throat

**Chapter 6 - Foot to the Throat**

 

_Like a bull in a china shop, but the shelves have all been cleared_

_A thief in an empty vault, the sheep already sheared_

_A screen door in a submarine, an eagle with a broken wing_

_Hope in a dead man’s dream, the sound of a bell that will never ring_

**_~ Lamb of God ~_ **

 

**Ottery St Catchpole, Devon - ????**

 

The building wasn’t as tall as the Burrow had been. It sprawled outwards from a two storey central building; low lying additions built on all sides. Most of its construction appeared to be ramshackle and temporary, with only main central house seemingly having any stable structure. Sheets of corrugated metal were attached to the edges, jutting up above the roofline. It created a secure space that couldn’t be seen from the ground, but anyone behind it would be able to see out through holes in the metal and slits cut at intervals. On one side of the roof was a tall, wooden construction, climbing a good twenty foot into the air and topped with a windmill; the planks that made up the blades were angled slightly to catch the wind, and the breeze turned it lazily. On the other side of the building to her was a rough track, beaten into the dirt by the passage of people. It appeared to go from the front of the building and head eastward, Hermione’s left. The track went past a small, fenced in field with furrows dug into it. There didn’t appear to be anything growing at the moment. Some makeshift equipment was parked by the fence, including a plough, scythe, and several buckets. Closer to Hermione—on what she figured was the back of the house—was a wooden pen, a pile of dry grass on one side and a tin trough, filled with some brown, lumpen mixture. Within the pen were two animals, with brownish, rust coloured hides. The pair were stood side by side, touching almost as Hermione couldn’t separate the two animals. They appeared to be cows, each with a small pair of horns on the sides of their heads. The udders on the nearest one were really big, hanging low to the ground, and looked swollen; she couldn’t see the other cow’s udders, but had to assume they would be the same. A quiet lowing sound drifted up towards her high vantage point. The pair continued to chew, taking it in turns to pluck at the hay pile.

Hermione watched in amazement as the cows turned, moving smoothly in unison and facing her. It wasn’t until they started walking forward, towards her position, that she realised that there were only four legs visible! Her perspective reshuffled slightly, and she realised that she was staring at a two-headed cow!

 _Well, that can’t be right!_ she thought, mind racing.

She watched one head turn one way, the other turn the opposite way. The cow mooed quietly and then continued forward.

 _Nope… that is_ definitely _a two-headed cow!_ She was incredulous, wondering what sort of place she had found herself in that had mutated, multi-headed cows and giant flies that shot spikey caterpillars from their arse! _Shit, what do the farmers look like!?_

The house looked quiet, with only the livestock moving around, but certainly not abandoned. There appeared to be a small washing line just visible to the right of the house, some small items of clothing moving in the slight wind. An old fashioned mangle stood nearby, a woven basket of folded garments, all in greys and browns, sat beside it. It looked as if the owners had just popped out, and would be back soon. She studied the rest of the area, realising that this house was as protected from sight as the Burrow had been, even without any magical defences. The hills surrounded it, sheltered it from sight.

There was clearly danger here though, she realised as her gaze focussed on the roof space, and caught sight of some items scattered about. Tucked behind the metal cladding there were weapons and supplies; large guns, handguns, weapons designed for close quarters, boxes and crates that probably held ammunition. The witch guessed that the wildlife here needed dealing with on occasion, especially if there were all as aggressive as that fly had been!

Her stomach growled, loudly, and she abruptly realised that she hadn’t eaten for much of the day. Digging through her bag she pulled out her food pouch and selected half a sandwich—ham and cheese, with a little bit of sweet pickle—and took a large bite. She sighed in pleasure as the simple flavours helped to wash away some of the dust in her throat. Carefully the remaining half was rewrapped and placed back in her bag. Taking a sip of water she returned to observing the little house, wondering if the occupants would return soon or if it was actually empty and the owners gone.

She had laid there for half an hour or so, finished her sandwich and tidied away what was left of her water bottle—just over a quarter of the bottle left—when her eyes were drawn to the left, movement catching her attention. Slowly, pulling a narrow, two-wheeled cart laden with boxes, a figure was approaching the house; she was relieved to note that the person had only the normal four limbs. The figure was dressed in rough spun trousers and a shirt, a large straw hat on their head protected them from the sun and a bandana was tied around their face to keep out the dust. They walked slowly, either from the weight of the cart or tiredness, but Hermione sensed that their eyes were looking all around.

As they got closer to the house there was a rattling sound from the roof of the house, and a previously unseen hatch flew open. It had blended into the roof until now, and she watched as two figures with short, dark hair, similarly dressed to the person on the road, clambered out and ran to the side, plucking guns from their resting places and taking up positions, barrels poking through gaps in the metal, and training them forward.

The figure on the road stopped and removed their hat, lowering the bandana from their face. Hermione could see a dark-skinned, bearded man, his face grizzled with the sun and hard work, grinning at those on the roof, as he held his hands out to the sides to show they were empty.

“Papa!”

A young girl, her dark hair streaming out behind her, ran towards the man from the front of the house. Her feet were bare, her dress a dusty blue and as rough looking as the others. She sprinted across the open ground and threw herself into her father's arms, the man crouching slightly to catch her and swing her around. Hermione could hear his laugh, deep and clear, and she felt a smile on her face as she watched the reunion.

A woman stepped out from the front of the building, and stood, smiling, waiting for the pair to finish their greeting. She was tall, pale-skinned, and young--to Hermione's eyes, but still probably a bit older then her. Her hair was long and loose, blonde in colour, hanging about her shoulders to reach the small of her back. She turned and looked up, waving to the two on the roof.

The pair put down their guns and ran quickly to the hatch, disappearing inside and slamming the cover down. Within moments they appeared out the front and ran to join the man.

Hermione realised, as they passed the woman, that they were much younger, probably no more than early teens. Both boys from their appearance, they each received a hug from the man and a ruffle of the hair, before they each picked up a box from the cart, and all four began to walk back to the house, the man pulling the cart and the little girl holding onto his arm and staring up at him. She could hear the children’s’ excited voices as they walked, questioning the man about his journey, but she couldn't pick out his responses.

As he reached the house he stopped, the children continuing on, indoors. The woman stepped forward and pulled him into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her to him. They stood that way for some time, and Hermione felt a little embarrassed at the obvious relief in their reunion, feeling that she was intruding on a deeply private, personal moment. She turned away, looking over the slope that led back to Ottery St Catchpole, giving them a moment, until she heard the sound of the front door closing again. When she looked back down on the house the man was alone, unloading the cart and stacking the boxes along the left side of the house.

They seemed normal.

Standing slowly, she put her arms out to the sides—much as the man had done earlier—and began to move down the slope, stepping carefully on the dirt and stones to avoid slipping and falling.

“Hello, the farm!” she called, her voice sounding far too loud to her ears, feeling a twinge of fear at being this exposed on the hillside. _Let’s hope they’re friendlier to strangers than that fly was!_

The reaction to her appearance was almost instantaneous.

The man turned from the cart, a rifle already in his hands. The sound of the slide being pulled back, the bullet locking into place, sounded extremely loud, even at this distance. The barrel of the gun was aimed at her, unwavering. She kept her eyes locked on the man, desperately trying to keep a friendly smile on her face, as she heard the trapdoor slam open once more. There was the sound of running feet, rattling guns, and the clanks of metal as the boys appeared over the rooftop parapets.

“I’m unarmed,” she said, holding her arms out even further, trying to look as harmless as possible. _Apart from the knife and a big metal stick_ , she thought to herself, still holding the man’s eyes. “I only have a knife in my pocket. No guns!”

“Turn around. Drop the bag and the jacket!” he called, his voice deep and clear. “Slowly!”

Hermione obeyed, closing her eyes as she put her back to the three weapons. _Please don’t shoot me, please don’t shoot me…_ She carefully slid the bag off of her shoulders, holding it out and lowering it to the floor, before slowly sliding her jacket off her shoulders and dropping that as well. She held her arms out once more hearing footsteps coming closer.

“Turn around,” came the man’s voice, much closer now.

“I mean no harm to you or your family, honestly.” She turned around slowly to face him, arms still held out.

The man was stood ten foot away, rifle held loosely in his hands, the barrel pointed at the floor. Hermione noticed the two boys on the roof hadn’t lowered their guns yet. The witch and the farmer stared at each other for a moment longer before he released his grip on the rifle, holding the barrel and letting the stock rest against the ground.

He held out a hand to her, a small smile on his face. “Can’t be too careful around these parts, but figure that if you were a Raider we wouldn’t be having such a calm chat and there’d be a lot more shooting and screaming going on!” He grinned, his teeth surprisingly white against his dark skin. “Name’s Lucas Shaw, good to meet you.”

“Hermione Granger, _very_ pleased to meet you too!” She shook his hand, feeling the rough callouses of a working man scratch against her skin. His grip was strong but gentle, no nonsense.

“Come on down, Miss Granger, meet the folks.”

He turned and headed back down the slope, waving to the boys as he did so, and Hermione gathered her belongings, seeing the tops of two dark-haired heads pop over the metal defences to watch her, their eyes just visible. She smiled and lifted a hand in greeting, one of them responding with a tentative wave. Following Lucas around the pen at the back of the house, she got a good look at the two-headed cow. Other than the obvious, it looked like a normal cow, just with extremely large udders dangling beneath its body. One of the heads mooed at her, while the other continued to crop at the grass pile on the floor.

“Good looking… cow…?” she said, hesitantly, not sure whether that was what it was called still.

“The Brahmin? Yeah, she’s a good milker and keeps the family well stocked. Not a bad thing to have around, out here in the middle of nowhere.” Lucas rested his rifle against the cart and picked up one of the barrels with a grunt of effort.

“Can I…?” Hermione gestured to the cart, offering to help out.

“Sure, if you don’t mind! Grab that sack there, if you would.”

Hermione grasped the neck of the sack he pointed out and heaved it up, onto her shoulder. It was heavier than it looked and she took a moment to stabilise herself before setting off after Lucas. She got a new respect for the man’s strength when she mentally tallied the crates and sacks that had been on the cart when he had arrived.

“Of course, you’ll join us for dinner and we’ll set you up a cot for the night.” It wasn’t a question. “Since I’m back from Exeter there’s plenty to go around, and it’s getting on towards nightfall. Don’t know about you, but I don’t like to travel at night, if I can help it. A lot of dogs and cats out in the waste at night, some badgers too, if you’re unlucky. Don’t get many radscorpions over this way though, so that’s good…”

Hermione accepted the offer, thankfully, looking forward to the chance to talk to people and getting to know more about this place. Already she had some more information, casually thrown her way by Lucas; two-headed cows were called Brahmin; raiders were a thing, some sort of violent gang, perhaps; Exeter still existed in some form; the night was dangerous, as were dogs and cats, badgers possibly worse… she mentally filed these next to ‘giant flies’. Her imagination began to conjure up some rather scary images of black and white, mutated monsters with claws and fangs, prowling the countryside. She didn’t want to contemplate radscorpions too much. It didn’t sound good at all.

The front door to the house sat in the centre, where two walls met at near right angles. There were a couple of small windows, covered in ragged, dirty fabric, which waved slightly in the breeze. Lucas pushed open the door, and Hermione’s stomach growled at the smell of cooking that instantly wafted out. The inside looked dim, but open plan, and she could see the blonde woman stood by a fire, set against the opposite corner, stirring a large, black cooking pot.

Lucas waved her in, allowing her to go first. “Welcome to Burrow Farm, Miss Granger.”

 

* * *

 

A couple of hours later and Hermione was sat in an armchair, worn and in need of restuffing, but still comfortable. Her stomach was pleasantly full from the dinner that Rose had prepared; a stew of some kind of stringy meat, with a rather gamey flavour—she hadn’t been brave enough to ask what it was. Floury potatoes and purple vegetables that looked like carrots had been added, along with some unidentifiable herbs and spices. It had been rather tasty, though had left a strange heat in the back of her throat. She sipped from a plastic beaker filled with cool, clean water, provided by Lucas’ purification plant. The sensation didn’t pass and she cleared her throat softly. She felt tired after the long day and emotional upheaval, and had to resist the urge to doze off in the cosy living room.

Rose, Lucas’ wife, sat next to her husband on a large sofa opposite; their two boys, Elias and Micah, sat on the floor nearby, playing a game of cards. The pair argued quietly over the rules, and to Hermione's mind, they seemed to be making it up as they went along. The couple's daughter, Ysobel, had fallen asleep on her lap half an hour ago and snored softly.

The little girl had been so excited when Hermione had been brought in that she had peppered the young woman with questions about everything; where she had come from, what she was wearing, had she encountered any danger, was she hurt, was she happy, where was she headed. The constant barrage had tired her out, amused her parents, and given the witch a lump in her throat from the overwhelming innocence in the girl, despite living in such a barren land. She had answered as best she could, stumbling a little over details as she was still not certain of when in time she was, or what had happened. Luckily, when she had paused for thought and to try and find the best vague, but acceptable, answer, Ysobel had carried on talking, asking her another question.

The boys had stayed relatively quiet, and a little wary, but soon relaxed a bit more, enough to smile at her when she looked at them to include them in her conversation. Elias seemed to avoid Hermione’s eyes, blushing slightly whenever she had looked at him.

Lucas and Rose had watched on in amusement, but Hermione knew that they were still careful, listening to her answers and deducing things for themselves. This became abundantly clear when, shortly after they had all settled down, Lucas quietly told the boys to tidy up and get ready bed. Immediately the pair jumped up with a “Yes, Papa” and cleared away their cards, and ran off to another part of the house. They could be heard, rattling around in their rooms for a few minutes before they came back in, dressed in loose fitting bottoms and t-shirts, their faces scrubbed clean. They gave each of their parents a quick hug and kiss, and said goodnight to their guest, before rattling off up the corridor again. After a few seconds, Micah--the oldest by two years, making him fifteen--came back and lifted Ysobel from Hermione's lap without her stirring.

“Goodnight, Micah, Ysobel,” she murmured, the boy nodding to her with a smile, and carrying his sister off to her room.

“Don't forget your prayers,” Lucas called softly after them.

“Elias, you too,” said Rose.

A pair of voices came back down the corridor. “We won't!” and soon afterwards Hermione could hear two voices, murmuring softly in unison. A short time later the light went out and that wing of the house went quiet.

The young witch sat quietly, expectantly, waiting for the questions to come from the two people opposite. She felt nervous, and resisted the urge to fidget. “They’re good kids,” she said, seeking to break the silence.

“That they are,” said Lucas, nodding slowly, his eyes still on her.

She began to feel very uncomfortable under their scrutiny. “You have questions, I'm sure…”

“It is true; I have many questions about you, and your appearance here. You are dressed in clothes very unlike most of the people I encounter. The appearance of the Brahmin surprised you... Where did you say you travelled from again?”

Hermione opened her mouth, her mind racing. “I don't believe I did…”

“No,” mused Lucas, “no, you did not. That one of Ysobel’s questions went unanswered. But I invite you to answer it now, in peace, and with time to think.”

Rose leant forward slightly, her hand on Lucas’ knee. “Please do not feel troubled, Hermione. We do not feel you mean us ill, and we certainly mean you no harm, but you must understand…”

“You are looking out for your family,” Hermione interrupted, gently. “I know, and I truly appreciate what you have done for me; taking me in, feeding me, and giving me a place to sleep, when you don't know me at all. You cannot know how much this evening has meant to me. How much of a relief it was to find… to find your farm.” Hermione swallowed the words 'other humans’, then sighed and continued. “I was worried that this area was empty of anything friendly, but to find you… It was a huge relief.”

“The Book of Proverbs says that “Whoever oppresses the poor shows contempt for their Maker, but whoever is kind to the needy honours God.” Lucas shrugged. “We are simply doing our Christian duty to help one of God's needy. Yet you have still not answered the question…” Lucas left the sentence hanging.

“Lucas…” Rose admonished, lightly.

“No, it’s okay… you both have a right to know who you have taken into your home.” Hermione cleared her throat, taking another sip of water. “This is going to sound… well, like madness, to be honest…”

“Only God can truly judge us, Hermione. Tell us your tale and do not fear; if you truly mean us no harm, then no harm will come to you from us.” Rose’s words were friendly and reassuring, but Lucas remained stern looking and silent.

The younger woman felt uncomfortable with all their talk of ‘God’ and ‘Proverbs’. She had never had much truck with religion, or any sort of myth and legend really. It had taken her a long time to accept that the story about the Deathly Hallows had actually been real. Without a basis in science, or logic, the witch found tales like that dubious. The family was clearly finding comfort, however, and it was causing no harm.

“Okay,” she began, “I was, until recently, staying with a friend up in Wiltshire… I had been taken ill and they were caring for me until I recovered. I had a long journey to make, but before I left I wanted to visit some other friends. I wasn’t sure… I didn’t know if I would ever see them again. As you said, Lucas, it’s a dangerous place out there, and my friends were in London…”

“London?” Lucas’ voice was shocked. “London is little more than an irradiated crater, inhabited only by mutated monsters, and the insane! What sort of friends are these that they can live in such a place?”

Hermione stammered, shocked at the revelation. _London, destroyed? How?_

“How can London be…”

“The whole _world_ is destroyed, Hermione. Everywhere looks like this; barren, empty, filled with dangerous people and mutated animals. The devastation is everywhere, there are _no_ safe places left… how can this surprise you?”

The young woman bowed her head. “This is the crazy part… I’m… I’m not from this world, this… time. I am… I _was_ , in my own time, able to use… magic. I was a witch.” Hermione grimaced. _Well, there goes the Statute of Secrecy_ , she thought, watching Lucas and Rose’s expressions of surprise, their exchanged looks. “I travelled here, using a device we call a Time-Turner, from the year 2004… I am supposed to be in Wiltshire now, meeting up with someone and taking them back home with me, to my own time… but I ended up here, in Ottery St Catchpole instead. I don’t know what went wrong.”

Rose stood, moving away from the sitting area, arms hugging herself tightly, pacing. Lucas remained seated, gazing steadily at their guest.

“I know this place, though, in my own time…” she continued. “It was called the Burrow, and some of my best friends in the world lived here. They are… were, a large family called Weasley. I went to school with some of their children; Ron, Ginny, Fred and George. We all learned magic together, at a school in Scotland…” She smiled, sadly. “I told you it would sound mad.”

“Madness comes in many forms,” Lucas said, after a long and uncomfortable pause, exchanging an indecipherable look with Rose. “In my travels I have encountered religious zealots that are trying to gather an army to take back London from the mutants; homeless wanderers and scavengers that simply wish to gather enough bottle caps to buy entrance into the larger communities, but actually prefer life on the road; psychotic men and women that raid those villages, plundering and raping, murdering—for fun—anyone they encounter in the wild; mutated monsters, roaming about and attacking travellers. The eldest say these were much smaller, peaceful creatures in times past, before the bombs. The land is littered with the dead and the leftover scraps of a civilisation that destroyed itself, many years ago. _That_ is madness, and this country is full of it.

“Your madness… on the surface it seems to be a product of heat stroke and too much radiation.” Lucas stood and walked to a metal box, fixed to a wall in the kitchen area. It was a pale green colour with a dirty white cross emblazoned on the front. He pulled out a small, plastic bag, filled with a liquid, brown in colour, but strangely fluorescent in the dim light. There was a plastic tube and a covered needle hanging from it. “Fortunately, the good people of the old world created certain chemicals that can help to eliminate that radiation… and that will solve one of those.”

The farmer walked closer to Hermione again, holding out the bag to her. She took it gingerly, seeing the fading words ‘RadAway’ stencilled across the centre. She looked up at Lucas, questioning as he sat back down again.

“The land was bombed, nearly two hundred years ago, in The Great War. From what I’ve heard and read of the old days, it seems that every nuclear bomb in the world was launched, and the exchange lasted no more than three hours. In the wake of the destruction the planet was destroyed; nuclear fallout rendered the land nigh-uninhabitable. Survivors hid wherever they could, struggling to survive, gathering resources and building shelters. The oceans are now green, and deadly. The radiation levels there are extremely high and should be avoided at all costs. For you though, a little dose of this stuff should sort you out. If you only arrived here today, then your body hasn’t had chance to absorb many rads.”

He sat forward, gesturing for Hermione to hold out her arm, taking the bag of RadAway from her. Not giving her a chance to refuse, Lucas removed the cap, gripped her arm and swiftly, and near painlessly, slid the needle into the prominent artery in the crook of her elbow. She flinched a little in surprise, but took the hold of the bag in her other hand when Lucas passed it to her, indicating for her to hold it up slightly.

“There, just sit like that for a bit. Let it work its magic and you’ll feel a bit better soon.” He sat back again, gesturing to the opposite side of the house to where the kids had gone. “Privy’s down that way, second door on the left. You’ll be needing to piss like a Brahmin in short order.”

“Lucas…” Rose said, disapprovingly, as Hermione gave a small laugh.

“Just telling the girl the truth! The stuff goes through you faster than a dose of salts! Best to sit back and relax.”

Hermione tried to do just that, as the strange, brown fluid trickled slowly into her system. She grimaced as her stomach cramped suddenly, a tight band on iron squeezing her for a moment, before relaxing and then cramping again. It was painful, but not really any worse than the pains she had during her periods.

Lucas noticed. “Yeah, hurts a bit when it starts to kick in. Can give you a headache too sometimes… might notice a bit of hair loss, if you’re really unlucky.”

Hermione put a hand to her head, worried now that this world would make her bald.

“Don’t worry, we’ve all been taking the stuff on occasion and we have most of our hair still.” Lucas grinned, but the young woman saw that the hair on the top of his head was quite thin.

She realised that the strange tickle in her throat, which she had been noticing on and off all day, had gone. Conversely she began to be very aware of her bladder all of a sudden. Lucas grinned, as she began to fidget, and leant forward, producing a small wad of material. With few words and an economy of motion, he placed the material over the artery, and pressed firmly while withdrawing the needle. He indicated for Hermione to trap the material between her upper and forearm, then he replaced the cap on the half full bag of RadAway and placed it on the table in front of her. “You can keep that one, for later.”

“Thank you… but now I think…” The pressure in her bladder was building and her eyes widened, suddenly realising that she was desperate!

“Go.” Lucas laughed, as Hermione bounded up and out towards the toilet. “Told you it was fast!”

 

* * *

 

The clock face stared up at her from the table where Rose had placed it, the many golden hands loose and broken; the names that had been inscribed on them were still legible. The wording on the face was scratched and faded, damaged by time and the elements, but several of the words could still be made out; ‘school’, ‘work’, and 'you’re late’ were easily seen, as well as something that looked like 'peril’.

Hermione wiped the tears from her eyes as she looked down at the Weasley’s clock. She knew, from Lucas’ words earlier, that it had been many years since the war that had annihilated the world; far more than even a magical lifespan, but this stark image told her that all of her friends were dead.

“We found this when we first got here and moved in,” said Lucas, quietly. “It was buried under the rubble of the old house we found. There weren't any bodies here though, I can promise you that. The place was abandoned long before it fell.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, “but I know that they must be dead. It's been over a century since the bombs fell… they must be by now… But it's such a blow, all the same.”

Rose put her arm around her, hugging her close. “We know, and we are so very sorry for your loss.”

She reached out and touched Ron's name lightly, the pain in her throat and chest back again, nothing to do with the radiation this time. “I saw him this morning, before I left… I had a feeling it would be the last time…” The dam broke then and Rose gathered the young woman into her arms as she cried.

 

* * *

 

“That clock is why I don't think your story is all that mad, Hermione.”

Lucas sat opposite her, outside the front of the house on an old wooden bench. The sun was climbing into the sky again, and the children were busy at their chores. Micah and Elias were mucking out the Brahmin pen, and Ysobel was helping Rose inside, tidying up the house.

“You said you came from another time, which sounds mad, but you talk about a family that once lived here. A family for which we have all the names on this old clock we found—which proves their existence—and that they called their house the Burrow, which is another name we found in the ruins. No, while it sounds crazy, it is certainly not madness.”

Hermione smiled and shifted slightly on the little stool she was perched on. At least she knew now why the Time-Turner had brought her here. When Lucius had told her how to use the device she had been told to empty her mind of all things, except Malfoy Manor, and that the Time-Turner would take her there. Her last thoughts had been of her friends, of Luna and Ron. They had both lived close to Ottery St Catchpole and so, with her mind filled with them, she had ended up in the ruins of the town. “Still sounds a little like madness when you finally say it out loud.”

He laughed at this, and nodded sagely. “Maybe it would, without the clock and the name. What will you do now though?”

“I only really have one choice. I have to reach Malfoy Manor, in Wiltshire… if it still exists!”

“A long journey, and one not to be undertaken lightly. The land between here and there is barren and dry, with very few settlements, and some of those it would be best to avoid; raiders and worse. If your… your _magic_ has left you, well then you’ll need another way to defend yourself out there. My boys and I can teach you to use a gun, and we can even spare one or two for you, and some ammunition. Hopefully you won’t have too much reason to use it.”

“I have a knife and a metal bar at the moment…”

“Good in a tight spot, if necessary, but always handy to stay at a distance, if you can. Some of the creatures out there pack a powerful punch, and some of them are poisonous _and_ radioactive. Distance is best, and a pre-emptive shot from cover even better against some creatures. Don’t expect anything out there to be friendly and you won’t be surprised! That includes any people you see on the road too; it can be kill or be killed… so you should always be ready to defend yourself.”

The rest of the morning was spent teaching her to hold, load, reload, aim, and fire a rifle and handgun. By the time they stopped for a spot of lunch Hermione’s arms were aching and she was glad for the rest. She was getting better though; she hit the target more than half the time now.

“Not bad, but plenty of room for improvement,” Lucas said, with a small smile.

“Yeah, I think I’m getting the hang of it,” she laughed.

Without a word Lucas walked off towards the four targets, picking three of them up and moving them further away. Soon they covered a large range, one sitting almost as far as the hills that bordered the house, a distance of at least 150 yards.

“Okay, I think you might be overestimating just how much of the ‘hang of it’ I’ve got!” said Hermione.

“Don’t worry, they’re not for you. Elias!” Lucas called, the young boy standing up in the field and running over to his father, smiling shyly at Hermione. Lucas nodded to the targets. “How about you show Hermione how it’s done?”

“Yes, Papa!” The boy ran off, heading into the house, and in short order Hermione heard the bang of the hatch flying open.

“Trying to make me feel bad about my limited skills now, Lucas?” she said, grinning.

“Pride is a sin, I know, but my boy doesn’t get much chance to show a pretty girl what he can do. And his sharpshooting puts me to shame!”

She blushed slightly, but didn’t have much time to feel embarrassed as there was a sharp click from the roof, followed by the echoing report of the high-powered rifle. The closest target fell, neatly punctured in the centre. The _click, clack_ of Elias reloading was swift, and another bullet took out the second target, over fifty yards away. The third target, set partially hidden behind a barrel, spun and fell as Elias’ shot hit it.

“Wow…” breathed Hermione.

“Wait for it…” Lucas pointed towards the fourth target, set by the hill.

 _Click, clack_ , _BANG!_ The target toppled.

Hermione turned, clapping loudly. Elias looked over the parapet, a small smile on his face and, seeing Hermione smiling up at him and applauding, instantly flushed red. The witch gave him a thumbs up, just as Lucas shouted, “Think fast!” and hurled a short plank of wood high into the air.

The witch watched Elias react instantly, the rifle coming back up to his shoulder, even as it was reloaded. He paused for only a second as the barrel tracked the spinning piece of wood, before the bullet shattered it into splinters.

“Wow!” she cried. “Elias that was amazing!”

The boy was now bright red in the face, his ears also beetroot coloured, and he was having trouble looking at her. “Thanks…” he mouthed, swiftly changing the small cartridge and reloading the gun, before placing it down again.

 

* * *

 

 _The kid’s good_ , Mazzik thought to himself, lowering the handheld scope. _Very good. He sees us coming there’s gonna be at least five of us dead before we reach the house._

He shuffled back slowly, keeping his movements small and slow until he was behind the hill and out of sight. He tucked the scope back into one of the pouches on his bandolier, slung about his body. The scope had been a present from on old soldier he and his lads had found, wandering along towards Exeter. The old codger had used it, and the high powered rifle it had been attached to, to put four of his boys in the ground, before Gralsh had got close enough to club the old man to death. Shame the rifle broke in the fight. Mazzik sniffed loudly, hawking a wad of phlegm up and spitting it on the ground. There wasn’t too much blood in it this time.

Looked like this little homestead had a purifier, a Brahmin, maybe a decent amount of stock too; he had found the cart tracks a couple of miles away, taking a round about route towards these hills here. He’d lost them for a bit as the man had done some backtracking and clever stuff to hide the tell-tale signs of the cart. Then Mazzik had nearly got lost himself in these blasted hills. There were a lot of blind turns and dead ends, unless you fancied a risky, and noisy scramble over the gravelly ground. Most of the others would have given up when they lost the trail and gone on to easier targets.

Not Mazzik, though. Mazzik wasn’t like most of the guys in his gang. When he smelt a prize, he didn’t like to let it get away. He was patient, persistent, and utterly ruthless.

He grinned as he thought of the girl he had seen. She was a pretty one alright. Would fetch a decent price with the Slavers if he could resist having his way with her first. He adjusted his crotch slightly as his cock twitched. The man would have to be killed, maybe the older boy too. If they could eliminate the sniper without killing him he’d fetch a decent amount of caps.

He found his thoughts turning to the girl again; the sweet, delicious looking girl. Maybe he could satisfy himself with having the older two ladies… just to make sure the girl made it in one, unspoiled piece.

 _Then again… some of the weirdos paid extra if the kids were broken in a bit_ , he thought with a grin.

He made his way back where he had left the boys, talking shit and amusing themselves by tossing the old soldier’s head to one another. They used to be a bigger gang, thirty of them and more. Now though, the wasteland had claimed more then a few; the old fucker on the trail had seriously cut their numbers. They'd need to do some recruiting once they got some caps, Mazzik realised. There were only eight of them left. Should be more than enough though. They stopped and looked up attentively when he reappeared.

“Alright then, found 'em!” Cheers greeted this statement and Mazzik grinned, drawing his trusty old pistol and machete. “There's six of 'em, man and two women, three kids. One of the kids is a girl; she's mine! Got it?” His machete aimed at each of the lads till they nodded.

Their blood was up and they were ready to kill, each drawing their weapons. Some of them liked it close, others were better at range; all of them liked the sight and smell of blood, the screams of the dying. Mazzik led them out in a long loping run, covering the distance to the hills quickly. He slowed them slightly as he looked for the signs he had left to lead him back through the twisting slopes. A few of the lads started to get over-excited, letting out whoops and howls. Mazzik quickly stepped on that.

“Shut yer fuckin’ mouths ya idiots! If they hear us coming they'll take half of us out before we get close!”

They continued in silence after that, covering the last couple of miles till Mazzik found the slope he had used to scout out the house. Signalling to his men, he ducked low to the ground and began to scramble up the hill, hearing them keeping close. Stopping near the top he waved everyone down low, to wait, and he continued on upwards by himself. Slipping the scope from his pouch he carefully raised his eyes above the crest. The house looked the same and everything was quiet. One of the women was out in the front, hanging clothes up on a line to air. The little girl was playing near her and Mazzik felt himself salivate just at the sight of her again.

 _Not yet_ , the thought to himself, _got to wait for the right moment._ He didn’t have to wait too long.

Within a few minutes he watched the rest of the household come outside, all of them gathering together in the yard. The dark man had his arm loosely around the older kid, the younger one—the sniper—trailed the other woman, carrying a bag. The little girl ran up to the group, throwing herself at the young woman and being lifted up to rest in her arms. Mazzik fought down a surge of jealousy. Now was not the time to get distracted!

The gathered people were talking, and it looked like the younger woman was going to be leaving. She was being given items by each of the family; a rifle and handgun, a small bag, and so on. There were many hugs as well, the young woman juggling the little girl, as she wouldn’t let go.

Mazzik mentally judged the distance, signalling to his men. Slowly they moved up to his position. He pointed to three of them--Gralsh, Glass, and Barak--close quarters brawlers all, indicating that they were to go first. Another three—Saul, Pug, and Tag—were designated sniping positions to cover them as they approached. Mazzik and his lieutenant, Bagger, would provide small arms support, close up. It was a plan that had worked many times, but this was a longer approach than normal. The three brutes in the front line might not make it, but they could each take a few bullets before they went down. Replacing them wouldn’t be a problem; crazed bullet sponges were easy to find if you knew where to look.

“Now,” he said, calmly, but feeling the spike of adrenaline as the three strongest surged past him. He turned to Bagger, the one-eyed man grinning at him, and nodded. The pair of them surged upwards and over the hill, head down, weapons high. Mazzik sensed the other three behind him, coming over the top and lifting rifles and firing the first of the covering fire.

The group by the house looked up at the sound of the gangs’ war cries, their shock and fear satisfying to see. The shots whistled overhead and splintered wood on the side of a house, punctured a barrel, and kicked dust from the ground.

The man roared in anger, unlimbering a rifle and pushing his wife towards the house. The two boys were already sprinting for the door, throwing it open and vanishing within. The young woman with the bushy hair hurled Mazzik’s prize at the older woman, the girl being caught neatly. The woman ran for the door, cradling the child, but a bullet caught her in the leg, taking it out from under her and sending her sprawling to the ground. The girl cried in fear, standing and trying to drag her mother towards the house.

Mazzik focussed on the owner and the bushy-haired woman; both had taken cover behind a pile of crates and barrels, their rifles already drawing a bead on the front runners. He swerved slightly, moving to keep Gralsh between him and the guns as much as possible. The rifles flared and answering fire whizzed towards the attackers. One went wide, the other caught Glass in the arm, staggering him. The big man kept running, howling in rage and lifting his spiked chain higher. The pair fired again, their rifles clearly better quality than the raiders’ on the hill. Barak took a gut shot that he barely noticed, the other whickered past Gralsh’s head and nearly caught Mazzik in the face; he felt the air of it passing.

Another trio of shots sounded behind Mazzik and struck the cover the man and woman were using, causing them to duck back. He picked up the pace.

A pair of whip crack reports from the roof signalled the arrival of the two boys. A cry of pain that sounded like Pug came from behind, and Mazzik imagined that the man was out of the fight. He fired his pistol towards the roof, trying to keep their head’s down, but another sharp bang sounded. The bullet shattered Gralsh’s knee and sent him down. He howled in pain as Mazzik leapt over him.

Glass and Barak made it to the house, rounding the defenders’ cover, only for the shattering explosion of a shotgun to send Glass flying backwards again, his chest a bloody ruin. Barak rushed out of sight, spiked club raised high. Mazzik focussed on the house, intending on dealing with the woman and the girl.

Shots from the hill rattled the metal defences above and there was a shout of pain, the clatter of a rifle falling. An answering shot stabbed at the attackers, another shout; Tag this time.

Barak swung his club, the heavy wood being caught on the woman’s rifle, driving her to her ground. His knee lifted, catching her in the face and sending her sprawling to the floor, stunned. The dark man pumped the shotgun, firing again, and Barak’s club deflected the barrel just enough to avoid it ripping his head off. He took the shell in his right shoulder, the impact spinning him and forcing him to drop his club. He lowered his head, powering into the man and sending the pair of them down in the dust.

Mazzik charged for the mother, machete raised to strike, when she surged upwards from her crouched position with a cry of anger, wooden club in hand. The raider ducked and rolled under the swing, sliding in the gravel to avoid losing his head. Bagger was close behind and his large fist grabbed the woman by the throat, lifting her up and slamming her against the wall of the house. Her foot swung out catching him in the crotch, staggering him, but he held her fast.

The girl suddenly plunged out of the house, a large knife in hand. The blade sank into the back of Bagger’s knee, severing tendons.  Even as he screamed in pain and dropped the woman, the knife struck again, swiping across his other knee, crippling him for good.

Mazzik leapt up wielding his machete like a club, and caught the girl across the head, stunning her. The mother shouted in anger again, swinging her club at Mazzik’s head.

The Raider grimaced in disappointment, lifting his pistol and shooting her squarely between the eyes. _Fucking waste!_

Barak was sat on top of the man’s chest, pummelling him with his fists, when the young woman charged him, shouting to get his attention. As the thug looked up the woman swung a metal bar, spiked at the end, at his head. The jagged edges ripped open his cheek and the strike rocked his head back, tumbling him to the ground.

The owner lay, unmoving, but the woman surged forwards, screaming murder and swinging the metal club again. Barak caught the end, the spikes cutting into his skin, and powered his fist into the woman’s face. She fell hard, releasing the bar, hitting the back of her head on the hard-packed ground. The raider stalked over, the side of his face a bloody mask, and grabbed her hair, hauling her to her feet. As she was dragged upwards she struck out with something small. The sharpened bone knife caught Barak in the shoulder, causing him to release her hair but barely slowing him and he punched her in the stomach.

The woman staggered back, doubling slightly, but remained standing. “Are you kidding me?” she asked, slightly winded. “My boyfriend used to hit me harder than that!”

She stabbed forward with the knife again, aiming for Barak’s gut. The big man grabbed her arm, twisting it brutally until the woman screamed and fell to her knees. His large fist caught her on the side of the jaw and she dropped to the floor again, unmoving. He spat on the woman at his feet . “Hard enough for ya? Bitch!”

Mazzik had gained access to the roof and was looking down at the two bodies lying there. Saul had managed to get a lucky hit and taken out the young boy. The older one was already dead, the younger one would need medical help if he was going to be worth anything to them. The leader picked the boy up, slinging him over his shoulder and making his way back down to the front. Saul was coming closer, with Gralsh’s arm draped over his shoulder, helping the man walk. That knee was going to take some time to heal, but he’d live. As he stepped out of the house Mazzik drew his pistol again, casually shooting Bagger in the head; a complete cripple was no good to him, however.

He surveyed the scene; Saul looked fine, Gralsh had a fucked up knee, but would recover eventually. Barak had a couple of minor injuries, the side of his head was a mess and he had a pretty serious gut wound; maybe he'd live too. Everyone else was dead or dying. He cursed under his breath before walking over to the girl. He lay the boy down next to her, before stroking his hand gently across her body. _At least she’ll only have a bruise on her face for a bit… still good._

“You get the fuck away from her! Don’t you touch her!”

Mazzik stood and walked towards the young woman. She was crawling towards him, away from Barak, close to the farm owner’s body. Mazzik shook his head and the big man stood aside. As she reached the body of the farmer, she turned away from the Raider, pawing over the man, seemingly checking if he still lived; unlikely after the beating he had taken from Barak.

“Give it up, missy. It’s time for us to have some fun together. Maybe I’ll let you watch me and the girl first… _really_ get you in the mood. I like it when they’re feisty.”

As he reached out she swung back around, holding a pistol; 10mm N99. American military spec. _Nice gun_ , the Raider thought, expecting to die. Must have been hidden under the man’s body.

“Well, you’ll fucking love me then!” Her face was twisted in anger and she pulled the trigger.

There was a gentle _clunk_ noise, but nothing else. Mazzik smiled, giving a small laugh of relief, as she pulled the trigger again and again, frustration and confusion evident in her eyes. He reached out and pulled the weapon from her grip. He held it up, flicking a tiny lever on the side of the grip.

“You forgot to take the safety off,” he said, pointed the gun at her, and fired


	8. Lame

**Chapter 7 - Lame**

 

_How can you afford to throw me those looks,_

_When you haven’t pulled the bloody wool from over your eyes yet?_

_How can you say those things to me,_

_When you haven’t even pulled the boot of the past out of your mouth?_

**_~ Lamb of God ~_ **

 

 

**????, ???? - ????**

 

THEY were back. He had warned them to stay away, but here they were, setting up camp in his territory... again! He rumbled low in his throat, his claws shifting in the dirt. He shook himself, disturbing the dust that had accumulated in his silvering fur. He looked up at the clear sky, judging the time by the moon’s position. The sun had dropped below the horizon a few hours ago, plunging the waste into darkness. It was just after midnight and it would be several hours till dawn and the sun would begin to bake the ground again. It was always easier for him to travel at night; it was much cooler, and the wildlife had learned he was not to be trifled with, though some of the bigger animals still liked to have a go. Anything in his territory was fair game. He was strong still, even though he was getting on in years. His bones ached in the morning now, past injuries that made him hobble about until the joints loosened up. Still, he wasn't in bad shape for someone pushing eighty.

Down below the fire flared as one of the men threw another dried log on it. The burnt and blackened wood wouldn’t last long so it was a constant struggle to keep a fire going. There were four of them around the fire, talking and eating, no doubt laughing over some raid they had recently been on. Their numbers had dwindled a lot since the last time he had seen them. Three shelters were set around the perimeter, entrances angled towards the fire. They were basic, simple canvas and stick tents. A narrow cart stood to one side, loaded with a number of crates, barrels, and sacks.

He doubted that the contents of the cart had been honestly gained, but at least there didn’t appear to be any human captives. Slaves were never well treated by these men, and they were almost always female. What happened under cover of the shelters didn’t bear thinking about, but as long as it didn’t happen in his home then it wasn’t his problem. It was a callous thought, cowardly almost, but he had not lived this long by trying to correct all the ill he saw in the wasteland.

That gang was a constant thorn in his side, turning up when least expected, forcing him to drive them out of his range, time and time again. The waste take them, he was sick of it. Maybe he _should_ just kill them this time. His long tongue lolled out as he considered this. He didn’t like killing; guns, knives, sticks, claws, teeth… they all led his mind back to Marion, the love of his life, and his children, all killed in front of him. It raised his hackles up and he felt the growl in his throat, lips pulling back from his sharp teeth.

The gang looked around, attention drawn to one of their shelters. The men laughed, their harsh voices floating on the wind to be caught by his sensitive ears. One of the men stood up.

 _Mazzik_ , he thought, the growl deeper and angrier now. _Always him. No matter how many men he leads to their deaths, there are always fools willing to follow him._ _Maybe killing him would solve the problem; one death to save many?_ He shook his head. It was a short slippery slope to being just like them. He had to hold himself above that or he would become a wild animal, no better than Mazzik.

His ears caught a high pitched scream, coming from the camp, just as Mazzik reached the shelter. So, there _are_ slaves. He closed his eyes, resting his head on his paws. Bastards were going to force his hand again. He knew what went on at night in those shelters and it was never good.

The scream came again, real fear now. Tears in their voice. He could just about hear the slave begging for Mazzik to stop, to leave them alone.

“Get off of her!”

His ears perked up; two slaves. That second voice continued yelling and shouting for Mazzik to stop, the other slave screaming in pain now. The second one sounded older, but still female. The voice tickled his brain, somewhere at the back where everything he had forgotten—and the stuff he wanted to forget—lived.

“Leave her alone! She’s just a _child_ , you sick _bastard_!”

That brought him to his feet in an instant. _No!_ He threw his head back and howled as loud as he could. There was no way he could let this happen. Mazzik had to be stopped, and if he had to kill to do it, so be it!

 

* * *

 

MAZZIK heard the howl and it raised the hair on his arms. _That fucking dog is out there! Just as I was getting started too…_ Mazzik stood, pulling his trousers back up, ignoring the shouts of anger coming from the woman in the corner. The ropes looked like they were still well secured, and she wasn’t going to be doing much fighting with that bullet in her kneecap. He looked down at the girl, lying quiet and still, eyes shut tight. The tears on her cheeks glittered in the distant firelight. She was a beauty, alright. “I’ll deal with this, and then I’ll be back… stay warm, my little angel.”

“You bastard, I’m going to kill you for this!”

“You haven’t killed me in the two days we’ve been travelling, sweetheart, you ain’t gonna kill me now. Don’t worry; you’ll get your turn again… Maybe I’ll let Barak have a go on you too. He wants payback for his face. Now… just gotta go see a man about a dog!”

He stepped outside, glancing around quickly. The boys were on their feet. “Where is he?”

“Dunno, boss,” said Saul, rifle in hand, looking all around him. “Heard him on the hill, sounded like he was over that way. Gone quiet now.”

“Keep alert then, backs to the fire.”

The men obeyed, fanning out and peering into the darkness beyond the firelight. The air was still, nothing seemed to move in the night. The raiders started to get twitchy; the only sounds were the crackle of the fire, and their captive talking to the girl in a low voice, words of comfort.

“Where are ya, mutt?” called Mazzik. “We heard ya! Come on out!”

“What did I say to you last time, Mazzik?” The voice came from the darkness, behind one of the shelters and they all swung in that direction, weapons raised. “That if you came into my territory again, I'd rip your throat out.”

“We ain't in yer territory, ya mangy mongrel!” yelled Barak.

“Oh, but you are,” came the voice, on the opposite side of the encampment, making the men swing around again. Barak shielded his eyes, trying to stare through the fire. “I can cover a lot of ground, fast. Everywhere I go is my territory… and you dumb bastards just keep coming back. You never learn.”

“We got no quarrel with you, old man!” yelled Mazzik. “We’re just passing through to Bristol, we'll be out of your fur in the morning.”

“You've never crossed the last line before either. But tonight?” The voice had moved again. “Tonight you've gone too far. A girl? A _child_?” There was rage in the voice. “You dare… you _dare_ to do _that_? In my house!?”

A flash of black, low to the ground, leapt out of the darkness. It streaked through the fire, scattering the logs in a shower of sparks and the area was plunged into darkness. There was a snarl and Barak gave a scream of pain.

Shouting wordlessly Saul fired and reloaded his rifle as quickly as he could, each shot vanishing into the dark.

“Stop firing you fucking moron, you'll kill one of us before you hit him!” Mazzik ducked low to avoid the panicked shooting. He didn't have to wait long for it to stop. Saul's sudden scream echoed through the night and the rifle clattered to the ground.

“Gralsh! Where are you?”

“Here, boss,” said the big man, limping up.

Together the pair of them stood back to back, casting about for their enemy.

“ _Lumos Maxima!_ ”

A blindingly bright light shot out of the dark, straight into Gralsh’s face. He shouted in surprise and pain, his eyes blinded. The big man vanished with the sound of a fist, smacking against his face, his grunt of pain sounding surprised.

Mazzik span around; the light flickered steadily on the floor where it had fallen, and the dog…man… was standing in front of it. The light was starting to fade now, darkness creeping closer and encircling the pair as they confronted each other.

The mutt’s hair was almost completely grey, wild looking and hanging around his shoulders, which were broad and powerful. His greying beard was neatly shaved into a smart goatee, his moustache strong. A simple jacket of dark material draped his body, his torso bare beneath, with several tattoos visible on his chest and abdomen; despite his age his body was toned and firm. He wore leather trousers, sewn with strips of thin metal plating to provide crude armour; no good in a fire fight, but would probably turn a blade. His feet were bare in the dust.

The raider held his hands up, backing away. “Easy, easy… you don't want to do this!” Something pointed pressed against his chin, pushing his head back, a hand also grasping his collar.

“Oh, but I do,” hissed the man. “ _Lumos._ ” The underside of Mazzik’s chin lit up, the tip of the wand glowing brightly.

Mazzik stared into the man's grey eyes, and gave a small, nervous grin. “You're not a killer. You've never gone as far as killing any of us before. What's makes you think you can kill now?”

“Because I _want_ to kill you now, Mazzik.” The man grinned, wolfishly, and gave a barking laugh. “I once told someone, very dear to me, that we all have light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. Now, normally I have a very sweet disposition, but you seem to bring out the worst in me. You could say you bring out my dark side.”

“It… it can't be...” The voice came from behind, from the shelter, and the man turned around. The flap of the shelter was held back by a woman holding a lantern, a woman he had not seen in many years, but recognised instantly.

“Well, as I live and breathe…”

Seizing the moment of distraction, Mazzik shoved the man away, sending him sprawling to the ground. In a flash he was gone, fleeing into the night.

Leaping to his feet once more blasts of light and fire leapt from the man's hand, flashing into the darkness, but none of them found their mark. “Get back here, you damn coward!” he roared. Frustrated, he cursed, colourfully. When he finally ran out of swear words he turned to look at the woman, hanging on to the shelter's fabric to stay upright. Her left leg had been shot, kneecap by the looks of it. Her good leg trembled with exhaustion and the effort of standing, clothing ripped and stained, her hair matted with dirt and blood. One side of her face was swollen and bruised, but even with all that he knew her. He stepped forward, catching her as she collapsed, cradling her in his arms. “What the hell are you doing here, Hermione?”

 “How…” she whispered, reaching up to touch his face; it had been nearly ten years since she had last seen those aristocratic features, but he looked much older than those years—the lines around his eyes, the beard and long hair now streaked with more grey than black. “Sirius…?”

“Yeah, it's me,” said the old Marauder.

 

* * *

 

THE fire crackled and spat, the logs within the flames splitting in the heat. They would last all night, thanks to the spell Sirius had cast on them, keeping the darkness at bay and the cold from her body. Still she shivered as the tongues of fire danced. It was nothing to do with the night air.

Sirius Black? How was that possible? She shook her head in confusion, wincing as she moved her left leg into a more comfortable position. Harry had told her about the Veil, how Sirius had gone through it and had never come out again; how Remus had told him that his Godfather was dead. So how could he be here, in this wasteland? Unless it wasn't death that was on the other side of that dark curtain… Well, not the 'normal’ concept of death; this land was certainly dead enough!

She heard the tent flap push back and his tired exhalation. She didn't look around, partly in fear of seeing that it wasn't him after all, mostly scared of what he would say. She kept her eyes on the fire as he took a seat on the ground next to her. They sat that way for a while, she ringing her hands unconsciously, he gnawing on his bottom lip.

“I think he'll live,” he said finally. “It was touch and go for a while. Those idiots didn't even dress his wound properly. Just wrapped a bandage round it, threw him on the cart with you and the girl, and dragged you across the waste. Maybe they thought… Ah, hell. I don't believe those fools think, at all.”

“Elias.” Her voice was quiet, filled with sadness and exhaustion but also relieved that the young lad would be okay.

He nodded. “They missed the major organs, luckily, so my limited medical skills could cope. Cast a sleeping charm on the pair of them. Though she’s calm right now, I don’t like the look in the girl’s eyes. What they did to her… well, the girl looks ready to bolt…”

“Ysobel. Her name's Ysobel.”

“Ysobel, sure.” He stared at his feet for a while. “How… how many times…?”

She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “More often than me,” she whispered. “Just Mazzik though. I guess he doesn't like to share.”

“Shit…” he sighed. “I'm sorry you had to go through that.”

She shook her head slightly. “It's okay, I'll live.”

“Yeah, but…”

“I said, I'll live!” Her voice was sharp, and broke slightly. Using her hands she brushed her hair back from her face. “Will he come back?”

“For these clowns?” Sirius gestured to the three unconscious men, trussed up on the other side of the fire. “No, probably thinks they're dead. Wouldn't even mount a rescue for them if he thought they were alive. Mazzik just worries about Mazzik.”

“And what about us?”

He shook his head though she wasn't looking at him. “He's gone, Hermione. Best we can hope for is some hungry badger or an army patrol finds him.”

They sat quietly for a while, lost in thought. Out in the darkness something called, a low guttural growl. It sounded far away, some nocturnal creature hunting. Hermione wondered if it was a badger, and entertained the thought of a black and white, mutated monster, ripping Mazzik apart. “Why didn't you kill him?”

“Killing ain't as easy as it sounds. I had my fill of it, long ago. Killing to survive, killing to defend… killing in anger… revenge. It never made anything right. Just led to more death.”

“But you said…”

“Oh, I know what I said. But when it came down to it, he was right. I don't have it in me anymore.”

“If I ever see him again, I'm not going to hesitate.”

He looked at her, her profile glowing in the firelight, and saw the hatred in her eyes. If looks could kill, the fire would be out. “Two days in the waste and you're all ready to kill. This is what it does to you, Hermione. Don't let it consume you.”

She looked at him then, incredulous. “How can you say that? You know what he did. To me… to… to Ysobel! How can you think the world would be any worse without him in it?”

“Have you ever actually killed someone? Pulled the trigger, stabbed them, beaten them till they stopped breathing?” He smiled sadly, as she glanced at him then looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “It's very different to say you'll do a thing, and then actually do it. Especially when it comes to killing a man.”

“I killed a giant bug,” she said, a little petulantly. His bark of laughter made her jump and she bristled. “Well, I did! Had to stab it with a knife.”

“Squashing a bug is so very different, my dear. Radroaches, Bloatflies… despite their size they're still only insects. Another human though…”

“I nearly killed Mazzik.”

His eyebrows raised at this. “And why didn't you?” He could see her cheeks colour slightly in embarrassment.

“Forgot to take the safety off,” she mumbled. She expected him to laugh, to call her silly; to chastise her as she had him. Instead he sat there quietly for a moment, looking at her until her skin began to prickle.

He finally spoke. “Did you forget? Really?”

She opened her mouth to reply vehemently that she had, then stopped, thinking back; all the training Lucas had instilled in her during the morning, and the chaos of the gang's attack. The shots she fired at the gang as they charged had gone wide; she told herself that the sights must have been off, or the gun had pulled to the side. She remembered spinning round with the pistol, finger on the trigger. She looked down at her feet, remembering the moment her thumb had almost instinctively contacted the safety catch.

Sirius watched all this impassively, letting her work through it in her own time. He knew what she was searching for; he also knew that the only logical reason she would find is that she had subconsciously left the safety on.

“How is it that you are able to use magic? I haven’t been able to do a single cantrip since I arrived here.”

The old man grinned, hiding it behind his hand, and allowed her to change the subject. “It took a long time to recover it,” he said, remembering his arrival in the waste, deep underground. “I found, much like you probably did, that the magic would not respond. I still don’t know why… but over time it returned.”

“I wonder what causes it.”

“You would need to find more wizards that had been through it, and compare stories. Maybe you can find a pattern if you find enough of them. If anyone can, then I’m sure the smartest witch in the world can.”

Hermione tutted and glanced at the grinning wizard, a small blush on her cheeks. “That’s a ridiculous assertion, Sirius. I’m certainly _not_ the smartest witch in the world!”

“You might be, especially now! Besides, that’s what Moony said about you.”

“Professor Lupin said ‘you’re the cleverest witch of your age I’ve ever met’, as in the cleverest fourteen year old witch he had ever met, at that point in time! He certainly did not mean in the world, ever!”

“Either way, if anyone can figure out the reason for it, then I’m sure you can. You may not be the cleverest fourteen year old now, but you’re almost certainly the cleverest… what are you now? Thirty? Thirty five? You can’t be over forty…”

Hermione gasped in mock outrage. “ _Thirty five_? You cheeky… I’m twenty six!”

“Had a hard life, have you? You look a bit drawn… a few wrinkles… Ow, don’t slap! Be gentle with an old man!” he laughed.

“Why _are_ you so old?” she asked, and then blushed again at the bluntness of the question. “I… I mean…”

“No, no, it’s okay, I _am_ old,” Sirius said, with a wry grin. “I’m nearly eighty now… maybe mid to late seventies? To be honest I’ve lost track a little bit, but I got used to being able to measure time quite accurately, thanks to Azkaban.” Sirius’ years in the Wizarding prison for a crime he didn’t commit had given him plenty of time to while away; he had become proficient at working out the time, based only on minimal external sources, and it wasn’t a skill he had ever lost. “The seasons don’t really seem to change here, anymore, just more or less sunshine. I’m fairly sure there have been at least forty years since I ‘died’. Some of the towns keep better track of the years, than I have, and I’m sure the Muggle Government up north have things accurately recorded too.”

“It’s actually only been eight since we lost you.”

“I get the feeling that this is a conversation we should have in the morning, Hermione. You’ve had a rough couple of days, and those sleeping charms will keep the kids out cold till late morning, at least. You need to rest too…”

“I can’t sleep in those tents, Sirius. Not after… not since he…” She shuddered, fighting back the tears. “My bag should be around here somewhere…”

Together they found Hermione’s small bag stuffed between the crates and barrels on the cart and she quickly pulled the tartan bag from within. Sirius used his magic to set the tent up and within a few minutes it sat near the fire. He carefully used the Mobilicorpus spell to levitate Elias, and then Ysobel, into its magically expanded depths. The gang’s shelters were dismantled and left in the dust; Hermione used Barak’s spiked club to do the job, with Sirius watching with some disquiet. He stepped forward after a while, as the witch began on the last tent; the one she and Ysobel had been held in. Her strikes were getting heavier, frantic almost, trying to obliterate the tent, its structure, and the memories that raged in her mind.

“Hermione,” he began, reaching out a tentative hand. She continued to attack the tent, sounds of distress now audible over the noise. “Easy, girl, easy…”. As his hand touched her shoulder she jump as if burned, swinging around, eyes wild, red and wet with tears. Her breath hitched in her chest, gasping for breath, the club held over her shoulder and ready to strike. Her eyes twitching from side to side, lost in her own personal hell, she didn’t seem to see the wizard. He paused, tensed and ready to dodge if she swung the large club.

“Come on now, Hermione, put the club down. It’s okay, you’re safe, you’re safe, I promise you.” His voice was low and—he hoped—soothing, but the witch didn’t seem reassured. The club twitched in her hands, and Sirius kept his eyes on it. Continuing to speak to her in soothing tones he reached out, trying to get a hold on the club before he ended up on the wrong end of it. As he got hold of the wooden handle, she seemed to snap and gave a cry of terror, trying to swing the club. Sirius held it fast, struggling against her strength, her panic making her surprisingly strong. He threw up an arm to block her left-handed punch and wrenched the club from her, throwing it aside. Wrapping his arms around her he tried to pin her arms to her sides, to stop her flailing attacks; he regretted it instantly when she began to scream and fight even harder, kicking out and thrashing at him. He grunted in pain as she struck his shins, his side, and planted a knee between his legs. He didn’t dare let go for fear she would flee into the waste, and desperately tried to retrieve his wand, nearly losing his nose as her teeth snapped closed.

“Oh, this was a bad idea,” he muttered as he was pulled off balance, the pair of them tumbling to the ground. Sirius ended up on top of her, the position sending her into another paroxysm of fear. The wizard wrenched his wand free from the leather belt holster, preparing to Stupefy her and prevent her hurting him or herself, when he noticed that she was no longer trying to get away.

She lay, her arms now behind her back, her face turned away from him, her body stiff and rigid. Her breath panted from her in short, rapid bursts, her eyes tightly closed, her skin flushed and glistening in the firelight with cold sweat. Tears trickled down her face and she cried out in fear and apparent pain, her hands still behind her back, even after the wizard scrambled off of her.

Gently, his face stony and sorrow in his eyes, Sirius weaved his wand over her head. The calming spell softly settled into her skin, and her cries lessened slowly, till she finally relaxed completely. Sirius waited till he knew she slept before lifting her in the same way he had moved the children. Floating her gently in front of him, he placed her on her sleeping bag within the tent. He wiped the tears from her face softly, his own eyes damp. “You poor child,” he whispered. “I wish I knew how to help you more.”

He stood wearily, limping out to sit by the fire once more. He rested his head on his knees, and wept.

 

* * *

 

**Mendip Hills, Somerset - 2236**

 

“WELCOME to my humble abode!”

Hermione stared at the small shack, nestled against the tall cliff face that loomed above it. It had a rustic quality to it she thought, if she was feeling charitable: it looked a bloody mess, if she was honest!

The single storey structure sat on a small, raised platform of rock, a worn path leading up to it. The building itself was made of wood planks, metal sheets, wire, and—it seemed—held together with hope! A door sat in the centre of the front wall, a makeshift lock of wire holding it closed. Windows, made of dirty plastic sheeting and covered with wire mesh, could be seen either side of the door; there was a smaller window visible on the left side, set higher on the wall. A metal chimney made from tin cans, duct tape, and an old kettle, jutted out of the roof.

A veritable rubbish dump lay scattered around the home; rusted and bent tin cans, empty soda bottles and bits of scrap metal, kid’s lunchboxes, bundles of old wiring, burnt and damaged books, as well as a number of metal boxes with tightly fitted lids, a tall, dented metal locker, and a few sacks. Most of it was scattered near the cliff, towards the rear left side of the property. On the same side, in front of the pile of detritus, was the remnant of a campfire. A couple of wooden railway sleeper benches sat nearby.

The cliff wall behind the structure sloped outwards slightly as it climbed, sheltering the building from above. Hidden within the Mendip Hills Sirius’ home was protected on all sides by hills and tall, rocky cliffs—the limestone was pocked with numerous small holes and larger caves where water had, in ages past, trickled through the porous rock. The normally whitish rock was stained and dirty in places where rust-coloured water had continued to flow for a while, before drying up. The wind, warm and brisk, made a low whistling sound as it blew. There was the tinkle and clunk of the glass bottles and cans gently tapping against each other as they shifted. In this desolate landscape it raised the hairs on Hermione’s arms and neck, and she felt sure that hidden eyes watched them.

“So?” Sirius said, brightly. “What do you think? I call it ‘Grim Old Place’.”

“Cute… I see what you did there.” The witch did her best to smile encouragingly at the exuberant man, but it felt more like a grimace to her. Sirius didn’t notice, as he was already bounding up the path to the door.

“It looks pretty neat, Mr Black, sir.”

“Please, Elias,” Sirius said, throwing an arm around boy’s shoulders, “call me Sirius. Or Padfoot. Padfoot’s fine, too.”

“What about ‘Snuffles’?” said Hermione, with a grin.

“Of all the possible cool and secret codenames you kids could have come up with for me...” he muttered, shaking his head. “Sirius, or Padfoot, please. And careful where you step up here!” This was given as a sharp warning, causing Elias to stop abruptly. “I’ve hidden some traps, in case someone gets too nosey. Some mines, bear traps: watch out for the clipboards.”

While the old wizard walked up to the front door and unwound the wire around the handle, Hermione and Elias cast worried eyes over the rocky floor, noting the clipboards scattered around the area: there were at least a dozen of them, each with a large stone weighing them down. A pile of gravel, dirt and debris, sat next to each clipboard.

Hermione carefully lifted Ysobel from the cart and cradled her gently. She tested her weight on her injured leg and found that it was stronger now: the bone renewing potion she had taken in the morning had started to do its work, and her leg was only a little tender now. Together with Elias she stepped towards the door, giving the dirt piles as wide a berth as possible. Sirius could be seen, lighting a number of lanterns within the dim interior of the shack. As Elias walked in, the witch glanced above the door, noticing the burnt wood board nailed above the lintel, and smiled. Scratched deeply into the wood, reaching the lighter wood beneath and allowing it to stand out, were the words

 

_Grim Old Place_

_Pas Toujours Pur_

 

Sirius gestured to a broken old sofa on one side of the room and Hermione laid the girl down. She whimpered gently but didn't wake. Elias sat on one arm, absentmindedly stroking his sister's hair.

The shack looked bigger within than the exterior had suggested, and the witch smiled, recognising the enchantment; it was the same Undetectable Extension Charm that made her smallish bag able to hold such a large amount of items. The centre of the main room was dominated by a large table, made of wood and reinforced with metal plates and brackets. A few chairs sat around it, some with various items of clothing or junk piled on them. Lined up along the wall opposite the entrance was a kitchen area with a few cupboards made from salvaged parts, an old, battered oven with a gas hob, and a large fridge. Around the other walls were large metal lockers, boxes, and drawers. Hermione glimpsed piles of junk stuffed into one of the lockers where the door hung from one hinge. In the far corner was a workbench; a vice was bolted to the side of the table, various items were scattered across the metal surface. On the side walls were two doors, directly opposite each other.

“Bathroom, and bedroom,” Sirius said, gesturing first right then left. “I wasn't expecting guests I'm afraid so quarters will be tight. There’s a bed and a couple of bunks, so Hermione you can have the bed, I’ll have the top bunk, if you don't mind sharing the lower one with your sister, Elias?”

The boy gave his head a small shake and stood, indicating the bathroom. At Sirius' nod the boy disappeared inside to relieve himself. The wizard turned to his other guest.

“Better inside, isn't it?” Sirius said, with a knowing grin. He laughed at her expression. “It's okay. I saw the look on your face when we arrived. It doesn't look like much but that's as much for defence as anything else. Doesn't do to look like you have something worth taking.”

“It’s… it’s actually quite cozy.”

“No need to sound so surprised!” Sirius laughed, and then sobered. “Just a word of warning though, for you and the kids. If anyone feels the urge to go for a wander about outside, stay on the little platform and don’t go too far south, up the slope from here. I’ve got some rather grumpy neighbours, living in the cave at the top of the hill, and you really, _really_ don’t want them coming after you!”

Hermione’s eyes had gotten wider and wider as he spoke. “What are they?” she breathed.

“Big, fast, territorial lizards that run on two legs and have horns and really big claws! The adults are about ten foot tall. Most people call them Deathclaws, on account of the claws and the very real likelihood of dying if one catches you! One or two sometimes come down the hill, to go hunting, but not very often; I think they have another exit from their cave elsewhere, and this one is more of a ‘back door’. There’re a couple of charms that are working to distract them from this place, but better to be quiet and out of the way if they happen to come around.”

“You’re having me on! Why on earth would you live close by to such a dangerous creature?”

“Protection, really. They can handle pretty much anything that comes in, so people avoid the area. Occasionally foolhardy scavengers decide to go exploring, thinking they can make a lot of money from any spoils in the cave; I try to convince them to turn back, but I can’t stop them if they want to go to their death. And if they become a problem for me? Well, I can draw a couple of the herd down to deal with my situation and hide behind a few charms… The scavengers usually high tail it pretty quick when they see McGonagall or Snivellus approaching..”

“Wait! You’ve _named_ some of them?”

“Oh, I’ve named them all over the years, if I can identify something distinctive about them. Moony only seems to come out at night, Prongs has an extra pair of horns, and Flitwick is the smallest adult. Snivellus is the lanky one whose horns are blacker than the rest, and a bit droopier; he’s always a bit more anti-social than the others too… McGonagall seems to be the mum. She’s bigger than most, the little one’s stay close to her, and she’s just fucking _terrifying_ if she’s pissed off!” He was grinning insolently.

Hermione shook her head, laughing in spite of herself. “I really don’t think Minerva would appreciate the comparison! You are _definitely_ just winding up the new girl, aren’t you? There’s no such thing…”

There was a gasp from the sofa, the sound of frightened shuffling. They turned to see Ysobel, sat bolt upright, back pressed against the ribbed padding of the sofa. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated in fear as she stared at Sirius, trying to push herself through the cushion and get as far away from him as possible. Hermione stepped to her side and dropped to her knees, reaching out to hold the girl’s hands gently, speaking soothingly. Ysobel flinched away, eyes staring through the woman and clutching her hands to her chest.

“Ysobel, it’s okay, you’re safe. I’m here, I’ve got you. Elias is here too. Elias!”

The boy had just come back out of the bathroom as she called, and he immediately dropped onto the sofa next to his sister. “Hey Izzy, it’s me, it’s okay.” He reached out to grasp her hands and the girl spun to look at him, her whole body trembling. Elias smiled encouragingly, squeezing her hand gently.

Her eyes suddenly seemed to focus, and recognition bloomed along with relief. “El!” she gasped, shooting across the seat and hugging him tightly.

“It’s okay, sis, I got you. You’re safe, no one here is going to hurt you.”

“That man,” Ysobel began, looking up again. She stopped in confusion. “Where’s he gone?”

Hermione glanced around, seemingly alone with the children. Then she noticed a furry tail, black and streaked with grey, sticking out from behind the table and smiled. “That was Sirius. He’s just stepped out to give you some space, Ysobel.”

“I didn’t hear the door open.”

“He can be quiet when he needs to. He’s a good man, one of the best in fact.”

“He scared me…”

Elias hugged her tight. “He’s okay, sis. He really is a good guy.”

Hermione grinned as she saw the tail start to swish back and forth. _Who’s a good boy?_ she thought, and nearly laughed out loud. “You’ll get to meet him later, when you’re ready. Come on, it’s starting to get late now, but we’ll get you something to eat first. It’s been a long day.”

Ysobel gave a small squeak of fear when she saw the large dog, curled up in the entrance to the bedroom, and even Elias paled slightly, pulling his sister behind him. The dog stayed on the floor, large soulful eyes looking up at them as Hermione stepped up to his side. The bushy tail stroked across the floor and his tongue lolled out as Hermione scratched behind his ear.

“This,” she said, with a cheeky grin at the dog, “is Snuffles.” She raised an eyebrow as the dog gave a little growl and seemed to glare at her, tail stilling. “Behave now, Snuffles, or I’ll let them rub your belly.”

 _I’ll get you for that,_ his eyes seemed to say, but his head rested on his paws again as the children came a bit closer.

“I’ve never seen a dog this close,” said Elias, hesitantly, “Papa always said they were dangerous.”

“The wild ones may be, but this is one of the good ones. Now, let’s see about some dinner…”

With some subtle help from Sirius in his dog form, Hermione quickly found her way around the small kitchen, pulling out plates and cutlery for the table, and cooking utensils to help her heat up the strange looking food she found in the fridge. In short order she had a meal of potatoes, an unusual green vegetable, and some chunks of meat on wooden skewers. Much as she had with Rose’s cooking Hermione didn’t question what the meat was: it was tasty and less gamey than her first meal, but she had no desire to identify its origin just yet.

The children relaxed in Snuffles’ presence gradually, and soon he was sat under the table, his head on Ysobel’s lap, as the little girl fed him little bits of meat. Later, the children lay on the bottom bunk—Ysobel nearest the wall, her brother in front of her like a guard—with Snuffles curled up at the bottom of the mattress. They quickly fell asleep that way, but sleep eluded Hermione, as she lay in the larger bed by herself, staring at the ceiling. Her mind was still racing, as it had done for the last few days. So much had happened in such a short space of time, some moments of lightness, and so much darkness… She shied away from that thought, feeling it raise a shiver of panic within her.

Sirius, she thought, focus on Sirius! He was here, and had been for years. He hadn’t died when he was sent through the Veil, though all accounts she had read stated that no-one survived an encounter with the strange archway. She didn’t yet understand it, but something tickled the back of her mind, telling her that she knew the answer to this puzzle already; that she had _solved_ this before. That made even less sense and she could feel herself getting frustrated and angry

 _Focus on Sirius!_ she scolded herself, but even focusing on the man all she could see was how he had remained here, rather than coming home, and that made her angrier. She looked over and saw that Snuffles was no longer on the kids’ bunk.

 

* * *

 

TONGUES of fire leapt into the night sky, dancing with the sparks that scattered on the air and the bubbling of water sounded from the metal pot that dangled from the spit across the flames. Sirius gave the contents a stir, waving the steam towards him and checking the scent. From the bag at his side he pulled some bright yellow flowers, stripped of their stems and leaves, and dropped them into the metal depths. The blunt stick he was using mashed them into the liquid and Hermione got a stronger waft of herbs and apples, as well as the scent of strong alcohol, as she stood near the corner of the shack, unnoticed for now.

The sky was clear, the clouds having been chased away by a strong breeze as the sun sank behind the hills. Delicate diamonds were scattered across the black and Hermione watched one of them leave the heavens and shoot across the sky, leaving a glittering tail in its wake.

“What are you making?”

Sirius didn’t answer for a moment, staring at the pot intently, seemingly unsurprised by her presence. She was reminded of the way Professor Snape had looked, whenever he was mixing a potion; she didn’t think that either would have appreciated the comparison. The pair had been mortal enemies when they had been at school, Sirius going so far as to put Severus’ life in danger at least once. He seemed satisfied with the contents at last, lifting the pot from the spit with his wand and floating it to the side.

“Just needs to cool and it can be put into the syringes.” He indicated several empty devices, all very similar to those that Hermione had found on her first day here; the needle topped with the strange pressure gauge. “Couldn’t sleep?”

The witch moved closer, hugging herself, and shook her head. “So, it’s medicine of some kind?” she asked, sitting on the sleeper opposite him. “I found some of those devices when I first arrived but didn’t know what was in them. Someone had hidden them in a bathtub at Ottery St Catchpole.”

“You’ll find them all over the place, those that don’t get used. People pick them up, carry them around, get killed. Or they stash them somewhere, thinking to retrieve them later. They’re called Stimpaks, homemade, kind of like a healing potion.”

“And Muggles make them?”

“They make a version of them. Wizards made the first ones, commercially, long before the war. Now we make them out of whatever we can find in the waste. This is my own recipe; sandthorn, white lettuce, camomile, water, and some vodka for an extra kick. Plus a little non-Muggle knowhow, of course. Took me a while to get the recipe right.”

“Wait… _wizards made them commercially_?” Hermione gaped. “But... why are they in the hands of Muggles in the first place, if they’re magical in nature? They’re potions, aren’t they?”

“Sort of, yeah.” Sirius sat back with a sigh, easing the ache in his spine from sitting hunched for so long. “From what I can gather, wizards revealed themselves to Muggles in this world, a long time ago. Stories from some quarters seem to suggest that they tried to rule, crushing resistance where possible. The world is very different this side of the veil, thanks to their interference. Magic changed, Muggle technology changed… something to do with nuclear power and huge computers. It’s just a crap hole filled with shit.” His voice was bitter as he stabbed the fire with a stick. More sparks popped and flew into the air.

“So why stay here then? Why didn’t you come back through the veil?” Hermione could feel herself getting angry again, unreasonably so. She wasn’t sure why his attitude grated on her, but she found his dismissive words more than annoying, especially in light of her previous thoughts. “You should have done whatever you could to find a way back to us. If anyone could have found a way to sneak into or out of a hellhole like this it’ll be the great Marauder, Sirius Black!”

“Hermione…”

“But no! You found yourself here and decided to stay, rather than come back and help, rather than carry on fighting for what’s right… fighting for… for Harry!” The stress and fear of the last few days seemed to creep over her, a shadow of despair that she fought against. It stirred up her will to fight and converted it to unreasonable anger at Sirius. It seemed like he was suddenly at fault for everything, all that was wrong, all that had befallen her in the last eight years. “Do you realise what happened after you left him?” It was a low and unnecessary blow, but once it was out she couldn’t take it back.

“I couldn’t…”

“You say this place is a shit hole, but it’s nothing compared to the hell your death put him through! He was _never_ the same afterwards. You found yourself here and stayed to wallow in misery, rather than fighting to get out and do what was right!”

“Now just a minute!” Sirius bellowed, finally stopping the witch’s angry words. “Do you think I didn’t try? Don’t you think the first thing I did was try to get back?” He hauled himself to his feet and began to pace, angrily. “I fell through the arch and landed on my arse in the same room I’d left: it was still the Veil Room in the Department of Mysteries, but it was dark. I was alone, or so I thought at first. I tried to find a way back through the arch but it didn’t work. There is no curtain on this side of the arch, and the stones at the top were broken! I tried every spell I could think of but, as well you know, the magic wasn’t there! I would _never_ have left my Godson if I had had any choice in the matter, and I did _everything_ I could to get back to him!

 “We’re all stuck here, Hermione, forever! _There_ _is no way back_!”


	9. Everything to Nothing

  **Chapter 8 - Everything to Nothing**

 

_Everything you ever wanted,_

_Everything you never had,_

_Everything lies forgotten and dead,_

_Everything turns to nothing_

**~Lamb of God~**

 

**Ministry of Magic, London - 2196**

 

CONSCIOUSNESS returned, like a dash of cold water, as Sirius stumbled backwards. He fought to stay on his feet, arms wind milling, head spinning, and his chest aching from Bellatrix’s spell. His heel caught on an uneven slab and he tumbled to the ground.

“MOONY! Get Harry to safety, get him out of here!” he yelled, struggling to his feet, looking around for his crazed cousin.

It was then he noticed how quiet it was, how dark; everything was still and eerily silent. His shout echoed back to him. Panting for breath, tasting the fusty and metallic air that felt undisturbed for years, Sirius cast about to try and get his bearings. In the pitch blackness he couldn’t make anything out. The silence started to get to him, his heart thudding in his chest.

“Moony? Harry? Dora? Where is everyone!?” Only the echo responded. “ _Lumos!_ ”

His wand didn’t respond and, more troubling, he did not feel the familiar flow of magic through his body. He tried again, and again, changed spells, charms, hexes; nothing worked. His skin crawled as he blindly looked around. He felt unseen eyes on him, staring at him from the darkness.

“Hello?” he called. “Who’s there? Show yourself!” He started to feel that maybe Bella had killed him, maybe this is what it was like after you died: just an empty blackness for the rest of eternity. Or maybe she had blinded him! The thought was terrifying, and he felt himself sliding into panic, remembering the periods of pitch blackness at Azkaban; the feeling of the Dementors sliding around in the shadows, the imagined shapes and faces that loomed from the dark.

As he turned, casting about for signs of life, something solid struck his arm. He gave a cry of shock as the impact jarred his wand from his hand, and struck out with his other hand. He recoiled in pain, hearing the sickening crunch from his fist, the impact reverberating up his arm. Cradling his broken fingers to his chest—they had to be broken, the pain was so great—he sank to his knees, desperately seeking his wand, his hand encountering a column of rough hewn stone. The events of the last few moments ran through his mind and he understood that he had found his assailant. He had picked a fight with a stone pillar, and lost! He walked around the column; a short distance from it he encountered a large stone, touching it revealed it to be made of the same stuff. Close by to the stone he found another column.

This was the archway, he realised, instinctively recoiling from it. He was still in the Veil Room, or at least whatever was on the other side of it!

“Merlin’s beard… I really _am_ dead…” He had gone through the Veil, everyone who had heard of it knew that meant death.

Using the fallen stone he felt around the archway, finding the top broken and split. There was no sensation from the inert rock, no sign that it was anything other than a tumbled arch. Frustrated he kicked it and shouted, his anger at his cousin’s last act getting the better of him, his helplessness.

“HARRY!” He stood between the two pillars, hoping that his voice would carry back to the land of the living. “HARRY, I’M SORRY! I WILL FIND A WAY BACK! WHATEVER IT TAKES, I _WILL_ GET BACK TO YOU!” He slumped, sliding down the stone till he sprawled out on the floor, dejected. “I’m so sorry, my boy,” he whispered, tears in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

HE sat in that darkness for nearly a full day and a half, his mind automatically counting the minutes and hours, much as he had spent his time in Azkaban. He began to get hungry after a while and that reassured him that he was still alive; he didn’t think that you felt hunger in the afterlife, nor pain! His bruised hand still throbbed whenever he moved it, but he didn’t think it was broken after all. His wand once more tucked in his pocket, he had blindly explored the room as carefully as he could, knew its limits and features, noting a couple of piles of rubble that might hide doors. Moving some of the stones had resulted in a minor landslide, and had forced him back in fear of further missiles. He remembered that there was the upper walkway, but that would be inaccessible without magic. He tried not to sleep, fighting it by keeping active as much as possible, not wanting to lose track of time through unconsciousness. Tried all the spells he could think of to no effect. He shouted at the archway, demanding it send him back; he cursed Bellatrix for sending him here; he lay on one of the benches that surrounded the central dais, and spoke to his old friend, James, telling him about everything he had missed since he died, apologised for messing up and no longer being there for Harry—his Godson. He aired demons he did not know he had been keeping inside, his fears, doubts, lost opportunities, his wish that he had been able to find love, to settle down and have children of his own.

Mostly he sat in silence, just counting time.

 

* * *

 

NEARLY falling off his perch on the stone bench, he startled awake. His eyes felt gritty and sore, his back twinging slightly. He swore, disappointed that he had lost track of time.

The sound that had disturbed him finally crept through to his awareness; someone was moving up on the walkway above.

“Who's up there?”

No answer, just more footsteps. There were several people now, and he could feel their eyes all around him. More than ever he began to feel that it wasn't dark, that he was blind.

“Talk to me, dammit! I can hear you!”

Silence. Sirius waited, wand in hand, his heart pounding.

Light flooded the room and he cried out in pain, almost floored by it, eyes forced closed. It stabbed his brain with radiant needles, the insides of his eyelids bright red.

“Who are you?”

The voice, coming from above, was rough and gravelly, harsh like the speaker's vocal chords were burned.

Sirius tried to open his eyes, shielding them with his hands, but the light was too much. There were several points of fire, stabbing at him from different sides, large electric lights trained on the centre.

“Who are you?” he was asked again.

“Turn the lights off!” Sirius roared. “Is this an interrogation?”

“Who. Are. You?”

“My name is Sirius, now turn those damn lights off!” He brandished his wand, knowing it was pointless.

“Your wand will do you little here, Sirius. Not yet. Why are you here?”

“The lights!”

There was no sound for a moment, and then a couple of them switched off. The light from the remainder was still strong, but Sirius was able to begin opening his eyes, allowing them to adjust.

The room was as he remembered it; the archway, the dais, benches, the walkway above. The two doors that had been on opposite walls were blocked by rubble, as he had expected. The top of the arch was shattered, as if a giant had brought its fist down on it. Above him he could make out ten figures, spaced out across the walkway. They were draped in identical black robes, hands and faces hidden in the voluminous folds.

“What the hell is this? A Dementor themed Halloween party?”

“Amusing,” the one in the middle rasped. “What is the name of your house?”

“Black.”

“The House of Black is known to us from the time before this place. You are pure of blood, and therefore welcome among the Praesidiaria Staffel.”

Sirius frowned, shielding his eyes. “The Presidary Shtaff… the what?”

“The Praesidiaria Staffel. We protect this building, and all its contents.”

“This is the Ministry of Magic building! The Department of Mysteries! You're Unspeakables?”

“Those you knew as 'Unspeakables’ are long dead. Only the Praesidiaria Staffel remain.”

Sirius looked around in confusion, trying to reconcile his memory with the room he now saw, what he was being told by this… man… wizard?

“What do you mean, 'long dead’? Where am I?”

“You are within the ruins of the Ministry of Magic. The year is 2196.”

The words staggered Sirius and he clutched onto the archway to hold himself up.

“Come up, Sirius of the House of Black. We have much to discuss with you.”

With a rattling crash of metal a ladder was released, sliding down to the floor. Without waiting for him the figures above turned and filed out.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, talk.” Sirius, arms folded, stood in the centre of the room, refusing to sit in the offered chair. “Everyone dead? The year 2196? You lot promised me an explanation!”

Two hooded and black robed figures stood by the only door, seemingly unarmed but they had an air of watchfulness. The figure behind the scratched and worn wooden table, his face still shrouded in the black robe like all his fellows, leant back in the battered looking chair. Sirius could see that the skin on his hands was burnt. They were not _just_ burnt he corrected himself; they were horribly scarred all over, as if the man had been immersed in some terrible fire. He could hear the smile in the man’s voice as he spoke again, and his mind conjured the image that his entire body looked like those hands. It made him shudder in horror, the rasping voice doing nothing to calm him.

“We promised you nothing, Sirius Black. We merely wanted to talk with you. You are a stranger here, uninvited. In this land we would be entitled to kill you.”

“But you won't, otherwise you wouldn't have wanted to talk to me. You're wizards and witches, that much is clear; you know the House of Black, recognised a wand when you saw it, knew about Unspeakables.” He leant forward, fists on the table, swallowing the gnawing fear that he was talking to a corpse. “So talk. Explain. Let’s start with your name.”

“Very well, you shall have your explanation. Not here though, you should probably see as well as hear. My name is Rikard.

He stood, the chair legs squeaking across the broken tiles, and walked towards the door, Sirius falling in behind him. The robed figure on the left of the door swiftly opened it, before the pair of them came to attention. They both saluted, right hand flicking out to head height, straight armed, palm down, before snapping to their sides once more. The unexpected gesture raised Sirius’ eyebrows; it seemed to be military in style, but he didn’t recognise it. _Wizards saluting each other? What sort of organisation is this?_ He saw that both of their hands were as badly scarred as their leader’s.

The corridor beyond led off to either side. Rikard turned left, down another long corridor, littered with debris and broken plaster. Rusted lanterns hung at regular intervals, casting a flickering light that did little to hold back the gloom. The occasional window was dark; it was night outside. They walked through several corridors, rooms, and stairwells as Rikard spoke.

“Many years ago, in this land, the Muggles decided to kill themselves. They launched their most powerful weapons, each attempting to destroy the other. They succeeded; every land has been devastated by fire and radiation, purged of almost all life, poisoned by the terrible forces unleashed upon it. My people came here over 240 years ago.”

“How do you mean ‘came here’? Where were you before?”

“We came from your world. The Veil, you see, is not a portal to Death’s realm, nor a curtain that kills as most commonly think. It is a dimensional gate that leads to this parallel world. There were very few differences between this world and our own, and we tried to integrate, but were not welcomed as we had hoped. Attacked as invaders we were forced to defend ourselves from our own kind. It was a bitter battle and many were slain on both sides. We survived though, and won the right to stay, driving out those that would kill us and forcing them into hiding.”

“Wait... you killed the magical folk here? People of the Ministry?”

“They attacked us!” Rikard growled, anger and bitterness in his voice. “We came with good intentions, to find a place to live, to be accepted. Our overtures were met with violence and we were forced to respond in kind!”

“You make it sound like you were there.”

“I was. It is an experience I will never forget.”

“How is that possible…?”

“All in good time, Mister Black. Just be assured that it was for the greater good.”

They continued in silence for a short while. Sirius looked out of a window as they passed, hoping to see something familiar, but all was black outside with only vague shapes in the darkness. Their journey continued, down seemingly never ending corridors, through broken doors and debris strewn rooms. It looked as though the Ministry had not been cleaned up since the fight Rikard had described. “So why did you come through the Veil to begin with?” Sirius asked as they walked, wanting to keep the conversation going, to learn all he could. He was already getting a bad feeling about these people; Rikard’s last words had raised the hairs on the back of his neck, their strange salutes, the burnt skin, this talk of killing fellow wizards. The sooner he found a way out the better!

“We were… unwelcome in the world you came from. ‘Dangerous ideals’ they claimed, but they were just scared, really. Our leader had been taken from us, and we found ourselves gravitating towards another who had great plans for magical folk. He was branded as dangerous too. Cowards, the lot of them!”

“I’m starting to get a feeling of déjà vu… This new leader of yours…?”

“You will not have heard of him. He stayed out of the eyes of the magical community and worked in secret on his dream. His name was Heinrich and he was from a pure-blooded and respectable, German family. He dreamed of finding the source of magic, what made us who we were, how magic worked at its most fundamental level. If he could isolate it, he could control it; gift it, or withhold it. He had been taught by our first leader, and learned much at his feet. There were those that that had mocked him at first, but he eventually won their respect, enough that we would follow him when found ourselves rudderless, even though he was merely a Squib.”

None of this was reassuring Sirius and he wanted to get away more than ever. There was a tickle at the back of his throat that he couldn’t clear. The air was dry, had a foul taste, and a thirst was gnawing at him. “So the Muggles killed themselves…?”

“Not quite all, but enough that the Muggle and wizarding population is a shadow of what it once was. For over a hundred years before, we worked with those Muggles in power, showing them our power, teaching them respect for us, to rely on us. To look upon us as their superiors, as is right, for their own protection! War brewed for a long time and the Muggles had time to prepare shelters for their civilians. We, too, prepared protection, somewhere to shelter us, somewhere to continue our great work.”

“Your leader was _Grindelwald_!” Sirius cried, recoiling slightly.

All the pieces had suddenly fallen into place! ‘ _For the greater good’_ was a phrase Albus Dumbledore had come up with, many years ago, when making plans with his good friend, Gelert Grindelwald. They had planned to revolutionise the wizarding world; to gather the legendary Deathly Hallows—a trio of all-powerful magical items thought to be myth—to overthrow the Statute of Secrecy that protected magical beings from the prying eyes of Muggles, to rule over them as benevolent lords. The phrase had been a way of saying that they would rule over the Muggles for their own good, accepting that there would be uncertainty, fighting, and some regrettable deaths. It would all have come right in the end.

While the late Hogwarts Headmaster had abandoned those plans—seeing the grand design for a terrible war in the making and splitting away from his former friend—the ideal had lived on with Gelert. He had fled to America to gather like minded folk before eventually returning to Europe, he and his army of fanatics committing many terrible acts while using the phrase as their motto, before Dumbledore had been forced to face his childhood friend in a duel. Dumbledore had prevailed and the revolutionary had been imprisoned for many years, until the next dark wizard to rise to power, Voldemort, had tracked him down and killed him.

“Why do you recoil, Sirius?” Rikard asked. “You are pure-blooded! Surely you were brought up to see our inherent superiority? That they struggle to manage their own existence without causing mayhem and destruction wherever they go? This world is a prime example! Even with our guidance they managed to destroy it in their petty squabbles, unwilling to listen to the counsel of their betters!”

“Grindelwald was a maniac that had to be put down for his _own_ bloody good, never mind the ‘greater’ one! The world I come from still has the Statute in place, and we have not destroyed ourselves, nor have the Muggles!”

“Give them time!” Rikard laughed. “They cannot help themselves! Only with our help were they able to last as long as they did. They let their own petty squabbles spill over, despite our counsel, and threw it all away! The technological advances we had given them, the access to our potions, all of it scorned and abandoned for greed!”

“How do you know it wasn’t _your_ influence that caused this in the first place!?” Sirius was still backing away from Rikard, keeping him in sight but moving towards the main Atrium of the Ministry; he had been gradually getting his bearings as they had walked, recognising some landmarks that had not been destroyed by time and the war. He was close and knew in a short while he could make a run for it. His chest was starting to ache and his lungs burned. There was a cough building and that burn at the back of his throat was still there; it worried him, and not for the first time he was concerned about the foul taste to the air. “They accepted your rule for 100 years, you said. So by, what? The late ’50s, 2060ish, they had had enough and wiped out themselves and you? I come from 1996, forty years since your departure, and there are no indications that the Muggles are going to kill us all! The rest of my House may have agreed with your claptrap, but _this_ Black won’t! The last thing I need is a fucking family reunion! YOU are the problem, Rikard! You and your thrice accursed pure-blood mania!”

“You dare?” Rikard threw back his hood at last, drawing his wand.

The sight caused Sirius to cry out in horror. He had been right in his guess, and he saw now that the burnt and scarred appearance covered Rikard’s entire, bald and nearly fleshless head. The tendons around his jaw and neck were nearly visible, ropes of muscle moving under the parchment thin skin. What skin there was appeared a reddish-brown, as if left out in the sun for years. His lips were almost non-existent and broken teeth were visible within his mouth. Rikard’s eyes were pale blue, the colour almost bleached out; they stabbed at Sirius, anger and contempt in them.

Sirius fled from the horror before him. He was at full speed and instinct made him jink to the side as a spell blasted past him. In a flash he was safely around a corner and stumbling down the large staircase that led to the atrium.

The ceiling above was blackened and burnt, remains of windows shattered and gaping, revealing the night sky above. Broken rubble lay strewn about the large hall, the fireplaces that had once lined the sides all now shattered and ruined. Seeking a way out, Sirius dashed across the open space, hearing Rikard's angry shout from the top of the stairs.

There was a hiss of rushing air and a robed figure swirled into existence directly in front of the running wizard. Without a pause, before the newcomer could level his wand, Sirius leapt into the air and powered his fist into their hood, feeling it connect hard. The man dropped like a stone and Sirius snatched the falling wand, turning and attempting to cast a vicious hex over his shoulder; nothing happened. _Not just my wand that’s the problem then,_ he thought, deciding to keep his prize.

More figures began to appear and Sirius dove through a tumbled doorway, sliding through the dust and rubble as a hail of spells impacted around him. He smelled a difference in the air and, looking around, he saw a broken wall; it was worse than the stuff he had been breathing, but the hole in the wall led outside. Outside the room he heard the wizards gathering, moving closer.

“Sirius!” called Rikard, “it is insanity to flee from us! The land beyond these walls is poisoned and dead, you will get yourself killed if you go out there!”

“I’d rather take my chances out there than join your twisted ideology!”

“Why fight us? There are few enough magical people left in this land, and one more can only help to repair the damage the Muggles did! We can help you regain your magic, if you would only stop resisting the inevitable!”

“No thanks! Already tried living under an oppressive pure-blood regime, one out of five stars, would not recommend! Hopefully I’ll never see you walking corpses again!” Leaping to his feet he threw himself over the barrier and rolled down the jagged pile of bricks and stones outside.

He lay at the bottom of the slope, groaning in pain, his stomach heaving in the foul air. His gorge rose and his guts rebelled as he tried to stand. A hot stream of bile shot from his jaws and spattered onto the floor. With an agonised hiss, his throat on fire now, he struggled to his feet, wiping his sleeve across his mouth, and set off with a hobbling gait, not knowing where he was heading just knowing he had to get away.

There was light ahead of him as he ran, a patch of brighter sky, and he made in that direction. All around him were the shadowy remnants of tall buildings and terraced rows of Muggle houses; all of them were obviously damaged and partially destroyed, even in the darkness. Reeling from side to side, his head swimming and starting to ache, Sirius staggered away.

Rikard’s voice echoed from behind him. “You will die out there and curse that you did not listen to us, Sirius Black!”

Clutching his stomach, his eyes squeezed shut against the headache that was now piercing his skull, he muttered to himself, “Probably… but at least I’ll die free…”

 

* * *

 

There was movement ahead… someone inside the ruins of a tall building… he couldn’t make them out, tell if they were friendly, or one of _them_ back there.

He had to keep moving; movement kept him from blacking out, but even as he thought that his eyesight dimmed again and the nausea doubled him up. He tried not to make too much noise as he vomited again, tried not to panic at the blood mixed in with it.

The sky was lighter now, the sun above the horizon but hidden behind the tall buildings. The streets were broken and lifted, left unattended for years. No plant life was growing in the cracks though… would have expected something, a dandelion, or some grass, anything. This whole place was dead, some sort of monstrous corpse and he was just a tiny insect, struggling over the bones… _I'm getting poetic the closer I get to death._ He tried to laugh but it turned into another heave.

The person up ahead looked up, saw him, and ducked back into the ruin. He could hear them shouting something… He knew it was directed at him, but all he could hear was a buzzing noise

“Eat this, now!”

He startled awake at their words, seeing them at his side, kneeling next to him. _Must have passed out._ He couldn’t see their face as it was covered in a large fabric helmet with a dirty glass faceplate. Their whole body was concealed in a suit made of the same material.

They pushed something between his teeth and clasped their hands under his chin, stopping him from spitting it out. Sirius tried to struggle but was too weak; his arms wouldn’t respond.

“Swallow it! Swallow it, you idiot!”

The large tablet scratched its way down his throat, rock heavy and all sharp edges.

“It’ll slow it down, stop you getting too much worse…”

He blinked and could see the broken floor below him, moving… _I’m moving backwards…_ _pressure on my middle, a shoulder… being carried._ He tried to look up but his head was too heavy.

“You’re gonna make me carry you all the way out of London, aren’t you?”

Time passed in another blink and he opened his eyes; tried to at least. The light was too bright for him to see more than a blur. Long hair, black, above that fabric suit. _What did she say her name was?_ They were sat in a ruined building; he remembered getting there, but not how long it took. He was staring at the clump of hair in his hand again. _It’s mine…_ he realised, dizzily. _My hair’s falling out… go bald soon._

“Ow!”

The sharp scratch of the needle woke him up a bit. She slid the syringe into the vein in the crook of the wizard’s left elbow. _Marion… that’s her name!_

“Don’t be a wimp, hold the bag.”

Like a child he just did as he was asked, holding the strange, plastic bag of yellowy-brown liquid up. His gut clenched suddenly. _I know what’s coming, can smell that I’ve done it before already. How does she stay near me when I’ve messed myself so many times._

“Sirius… Sirius!”

The shock of her slap startled him awake again. “Whazzit!?” His voice sounded worse; sandpaper ripping across his tongue and throat, but he could see properly at last.

“We have to move. We’ve stayed here too long and… well, you stink! That creature will track us eventually, heading straight for your mess.”

“Okay… I can move…” _I’m not sure if I’m convincing her, but it’s not working well on me._

“Lean on me, we’ll go two buildings and rest, then go again.”

The day was spent like that, staggering across open spaces, pausing in doorways, alleyways, watching, listening, then moving again. They reached Hammersmith, then Richmond, and spent the night in a rusting train carriage.

“I can hear them moving around out there,” Marion whispered. “It doesn’t sound like they can smell us.”

“Thanks to those spare clothes we found…”

“Yeah, I was getting fed up with travelling in a perpetual cloud of piss and shit.” Marion grinned, the action lighting up her whole face. She had stowed her hazmat suit in her bag after they got out of Hammersmith, stripped down to a simple tunic and loose trousers. The large knife on her belt was balanced by a pistol on her left. Her hair was light brown, matted with London dirt, and tied back in a short tail. She was dirty, but cute.

“You’re a sweetheart, you know that?” Sirius said, grinning back at her.

“Yup, one who blew their entire stash of Rad-X and RadAway trying to stop you dying a horrible, irradiated death.”

“I can’t thank you enough…”

“Probably not, but I’ve never been able to resist a man with nice broad shoulders and dark curly hair. I do hope it grows back…”

 

* * *

 

War came. A smaller one compared to the one that was to come later, but a big one all the same. It starts in Europe in 2052; military action against the Middle East. It takes less than a year for the first nuclear bomb to go off, destroying Tel-Aviv. The war lasts eight years and several small-scale nuclear exchanges, before the oil fields in the Middle East run dry. Both sides of the war are in ruins, bereft of oil, struggling to survive.

The United States bow to public pressure, starting a program to build secure places for the public to hide in case of a nuclear holocaust. Other countries try to follow suit, with mixed results.

The U.S. strengthens its presence in Alaska, protecting its remaining oil fields against the red terror of China. Their neighbours, Canada, resist the Americans’ desire to pass through their country. Eventually the Americans annex the country, ruthlessly taking over.

By 2074 negotiations regarding the last of the oil is stopped, the President declaring that the last of the oil will be used for the U.S. alone.

Biological warfare is rumoured, Chinese spies are ‘seen’ everywhere with friends and neighbours turning against each other, and the Cold War paranoia of decades ago is stronger than ever. Genetic manipulation is rife, super-soldiers being created in secret labs, abominations being spun into existence. Every nation is trying to prepare itself for the end, to try and survive.

In England there are riots as the Government and Royal Family withdraw from the public eye, governing from secure, secret locations.

October 2077 sees the Great War begin; no one knows who fires the first shot. Despite the air-raid sirens few enough people make it to the Vaults and safe places. Too many tests and drills have caused lethargy and ‘cry-wolf’ mentality. Around 90% of the world’s population is caught outside when the nuclear bombs carpet the planet, destroying almost all life in their atomic fire.

And behind it all, with their own agenda, and their own plans, were those that called themselves the Praesidiaria Staffel. They took over the Ministry of Magic, revealed themselves to the nations of the world. They ingratiated themselves at the highest levels of government, using their magic to control and manipulate, to seed fear and doubt, strengthening their stranglehold on the world. Half-bloods and Mudbloods were being hunted to extinction and there were rumours that the Praesidiaria Staffel were close to finding a way of eradicating them completely. Eventually it was those persecuted wizards and witches that rose up and fought them, desperate to free themselves from the shackles of the oppressive regime. There was little doubt that the Great War was caused, in part, by this struggle, at least in Sirius’ mind.

He stared out at the wasteland before him, looking through the smeary plastic window in the kitchen of his small hut. The town beyond was small, ramshackle, and sparsely populated; there were no more than thirty people living in close quarters. The Council met in the largest building, the Mayor and his wife living in the small rooms above the main room. There was a bar, run by two brothers, William and Mark. They distilled their own alcohol using scavenged items and plants. The farmers, the Wilcox, Davies, and Westbrook families, were able to keep the town in potatoes, leeks, carrots, and the occasional apple and pear. Growing conditions were tough but they were good at what they did, so the town didn’t starve thanks to the guidance of the council.

Sirius was in charge of water management and had his own shed at the lowest part of the town where he had welded together a complicated array of pipes and containers, gauges, dials, and impressive looking computers. He had no idea what any of it did, apart from the pipework that ran around the township, delivering the clean water to each of the buildings. He had a couple of people who helped him maintain those pipes, and ensured that leaks were repaired. As for the water…

The main pumping stations in the South of England were offline still. The North had running water, though much of it was mildly irradiated. People in the South had to cope with wells and then try to purify the water. Sirius had convinced the Council that he could get a local station back online, could purify and distribute it to the town. Within a few weeks he had built his contraption and, following liberal use of some water conjuration magic, the town had clean water. It was rationed carefully and Sirius kept the reservoir in his shed topped up.

He still had no idea why or how his magic had returned, but he had awoken one morning with the feel of it in his veins once more. It had been weak at first and he had barely been able to cause his wand to light up, but regular use had brought it back to its full strength.

Sirius set a plate on the rack to dry and wiped his hands on a small towel. He had only confided in one other person about his magic and he smiled as she touched his arm. Her dark eyes captured his; his love, the woman who had dragged him out of London, had saved his life and given him purpose. His Marion.

 

* * *

 

He felt the gentle bump, the strange movement sliding under his hand, and he smiled. He had never felt so happy in his life. Marion’s belly was warm and large, and he stroked it gently as the baby continued to jiggle about.

“Have you decided on a name yet?” she asked him. “He’ll be here any day now, if the Doc’s right.”

He looked up at the metal ceiling, eyes seeing through it, into the past. He thought of his old life, what he had lost and those who had been left behind. He had never really stopped thinking about getting home, and he and Marion had explored—mainly in the South, but they had even travelled as far as the border to Scotland—looking for some clue, some hidden path. He would have taken Marion with him, of course, if they had found something, but no matter how many magical folk they had found hidden away, none of them even knew of the alternate world.

Several years passed and the search just lessened in urgency as day to day life and survival took over. He wanted a home, somewhere permanent to settle down; he wanted to marry the woman he loved, to raise a family. To finally fulfil the longing he had had deep inside him for years.

And now he had. He had a wife, a child on the way; a boy, if Doc Mitchell was correct—the old man had a pretty good history of prediction in that regard. He was happy and content, but Sirius never wanted to forget where he had come from, or what he had lost.

“Harry,” he whispered, a lump in his throat. “Harry Remus Black.”

Marion kissed him on the cheek and held him close. “It’s perfect,” she said.

 

* * *

 

Her fingernails dug into his back, pulling him close, her dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her mouth hung open, eyelids fluttering rapidly as she felt her orgasm building. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, oh fuuuuuck, yes!” Her voice was urgent, but low; four year old Harry was asleep next door.

Sirius gripped her shoulders, driving himself deep between her legs, his pelvis hitting her just how she liked it. Her full breasts bounced rhythmically and he gripped one, pinching the nipple. A hiss escaped him as her nails cut into his muscular back. He felt her tighten around him, her body going rigid, and her shuddering groan as she came.

They held each other close as Marion rode out the waves of feeling pulsing through her. Gripping his neck she pulled herself up and into his lap, her mouth hungrily devouring his. Her soft noises, whenever her tender clit rubbed against him, made him smile and he ground her against his pelvis. Her gasp of shock made him laugh, and she glared at him in amused annoyance.

Sliding off of him she turned, body pressed into the mattress, arse in the air and legs wide. There was a pause and she felt him shift on the mattress, hot breath caressing her bare arse cheeks. “If you’ve turned into a dog again, I _am_ going to smack you.”

She gave a squeal as a large wet tongue stroked across her upturned cheeks. Swinging round she saw Sirius lying on the bed, trying to look innocent. “You are incorrigible!” she growled, fighting the smile that tried to break through. Grabbing him by the beard she dragged him towards her. “Now stop messing around and fill me up!”

Sirius had to repair the bed the next morning.

 

* * *

 

The sky above him was grey clouds, but beyond them was the familiar burnt, brownish-orange he was used to. It was smoke in the air, heavy smoke from a large fire. He tried to sit up but his body rebelled, his head suddenly screaming in pain; it emanated from his left temple, a shrieking point of agony that caused him to gasp and lie still again. His hand found his face, feeling the sticky liquid that covered one side. His vision blurred as he saw the congealed blood that covered his palm.

_“The army outpost is just five soldiers! What the fuck use are they gonna be!?”_

_“Calm down, Michelle! No-one’s saying it'll come to another fight!” He was stern as he glared at Michelle Westbrook, the farmer's daughter wilting under the hard eyes of Mayor Tompkins. “Now, we know that the soldiers are there, they have weapons, training, and they are willing to help out the town. Hell, we keep them in fresh water, they need us!”_

_The town meeting was starting to degenerate into a shouting match. Tempers had been short since the Wilcox's farm had been raided, every living person and animal killed or taken. The attack had happened in broad daylight, three days ago, and there was no clue who had carried out the attack, or why. Supplies had been the most obvious reason. It had been years since the war and canned goods and medical supplies were starting to run short._

Sirius felt the pain start to recede slightly and pushed himself upright with a drawn out grunt. Holding onto his knees he struggled against the spear that lanced through his head again. A searing, burning feeling in his left leg pulsed in time with the beat of his heart, and he could feel a warm wetness under his hand. He couldn't open his eyes yet, not till the pain eased.

_“I don't agree with staying here, Mayor,” Sirius said, his deep voice cutting through the talk. “We number more than them, yes, but we are desperately outgunned!”_

_“We'll take a load of the bastards with us!” yelled Michelle, brandishing her rifle. The gun was twenty years old, had been repaired more times than Sirius had cast spells, and the girl waving it around was more likely to shoot someone else than a raider._

_“Fine sentiment, my dear, but I, and others,have families to think of; many of us have children, babies. If we fight and die, what happens to them?”_

_The town had been arguing about what to do for the last few days, ever since a messenger had come from the north, claiming to be from the gang who had sacked the Wilcox's farm._

_They were demanding they surrender the town, or they would take it by force._

_“Let them have the damn town! The water system won't work without me, anyway! We can rebuild further south, or head west to Chippenham. They've got walls and a working purification plant. We can bring them our skills, be useful! No one needs to die!”_

The caravan he had loaded up with all their belongings was burning merrily. The flames were strong and leapt high into the evening air. He saw the first of the bodies, one arm missing, lying in a pool of blood; it was the mayor's wife, Pat.

“Marion!” It was little more than a croak. “Marion!”

Crawling, unable to stand, Sirius made for the caravan. The last he remembered was the raiders charging for the town. They had promised them a day to decide but had then attacked, catching the town unawares. He had been loading the back, Marion and the kids already aboard and ready to go, the Brahmin hitched up front, when something had struck him on the side of the head and everything went black. He tentatively explored the cut, finding a shallow groove running from his temple to just above his ear; a stray bullet, nearly killed him outright.

“MARION!!” he screamed, lurching upwards and managing a few steps before falling again, his injured leg unable to support him. He could see her in the firelight, lying in front of the Brahmin's corpse; she wasn't moving.

_He hugged her close, breathing in her scent. “I think we should leave, no matter what the Council decide.”_

_He felt her nod against his chest. “I don't trust that gang to do as they say, and I don't trust Tompkins to protect us.”_

_“We'll go, tonight. If anyone wants to come with us, they're welcome, but we're gone by morning! I sent a patronus to old man Bright, in Chippenham. He'll be waiting for us. There's a few other magical folk there, we'll be welcomed.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you too.”_

_Marion kissed him, turned and picked up Dora; the newborn was starting to fuss and demand feeding. In moments she was latched on and suckling, while Sirius turned to Harry, now seven, and grinned._

_“Road trip, my boy?”_

_The young lad smiled widely and hugged his dad. “Sounds fun! Where are we going!”_

_“Away from here, Harry, that's all that matters. You're gonna have to be brave. You and I will have to protect the ladies, okay.”_

_Harry grinned, saluting. “Sergeant Harry Black, reporting for duty, sir!”_

_“Good lad,” Sirius said, returning the salute, “now go grab your pistol.”_

A rifle lay broken at her side, a slash cut a devastating path across her middle. She still held her pistol, empty. Sirius dragged himself to her side, hauling her lifeless body into his arms. Silent sobs wracked him as he stroked her beautiful hair, now stained with blood and dirt. He would never see her radiant smile again. Kissing her forehead softly, he laid her down, scrubbing the back of his hand across his eyes.

“Harry! HARRY!” Snatching his wand free he sent a deluge of water over the caravan, quenching the fire, while desperately praying his children were not aboard.

They weren't, neither of them were.

Images of them being taken and sold into slavery, or worse, filled his mind as he dragged himself upright, hanging onto the Brahmin's horn for support. “HARRY!!”

Eventually he found them both.

Half running, half staggering, he fell down at the side of his water plant. Harry lay on the lee side of the metal shed, sheltered from sight. A small bundle lay behind him, wrapped in a blanket. He stirred as Sirius landed next to him, eyes focusing on his dad and smiling. His pistol was empty, lying beside him.

His voice was small, tired. “I hid, dad, to protect Dora… is she okay? Where’s mum?”

Sirius swallowed, forcing a smile onto his face. “Mum’s fine, my boy, she sent me to find you and Dora.”

“Good… I’m cold, dad… my legs hurt something terrible…”

Sirius shuffled round, hiding the sight of the mangled and mostly missing legs from him. Holding him close, tears streaking his face, he whispered, “We’ll get you all better soon. All four of us will be fine, my boy”. Gently he reached out and lay a trembling hand on the blood covered blanket behind Harry, stroking the cold and still flesh within. “We’re nearly ready to go. Just a few more minutes, okay?”

Okay… I think… I… I'm really tired… Can I sleep on the way?”

Sirius closed his eyes, clutching Harry to him, the lump in his throat choking him. “Of course you can. Mum will drive the carriage and I'll sit in back with you and Dora and tell you a story. Sound good?”

“The one… about how… Moony, Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail... made the special map?” Harry's eyes were closed now, his breathing shallow. “I love that one…”

“I do too, sweetheart.” He bit onto his hand to stop himself from sobbing out loud. “You did really good today. You’re a hero, and you always will be in my eyes. I love you, son.”

The boy’s voice was little more than a whisper. “I love you too… dad…” Harry's breath rattled in his throat.

The carrion birds that had started to gather were scattered by Sirius’ scream of heartbreak.

 

* * *

 

The campsite was large and raucous. The gang had finished taking stock of everything they had looted from the town; the men, women, and children they could make into slaves, or sell on, the food and drink from the houses, and the weapons and ammo. Now they were getting down to the serious business of getting shitfaced.

The shouting and laughing, as well as the screams of several of the town females, filled the air. The two guards on this side of the camp grimaced and cursed, commiserating each other on drawing guard duty, and not being able to join in the raping and drinking. Leaning against the cart next to him one calmly picked blood from under his fingernails. Looking down as he was he failed to notice the shadowy figure striding purposefully towards the camp from out of the darkness. His fellow guard, was alert and raised his shotgun, shouting at the figure to halt. The first guard had time to look up and see the dark haired man, the two sticks he held. Two jets of green, sparkling light, leapt from those sticks and speared towards the two guards. They were both dead in seconds.

The man strode past them without a glance, his bearded and blood-smeared face locked in an emotionless mask, but his eyes glittered with rage. The night air was soon filled with more screams, as fire bloomed in the tents, gunfire spat, and magic roared.

 

* * *

 

A straggling line of townsfolk, their clothing blackened and soot smudged, made their way across the waste in a roughly north-westerly direction. They had a couple of Brahmin with them, loaded up with what meager possessions they had managed to salvage.

Behind them a pillar of fire and smoke streamed into the sky, obscuring the rising sun in choking clouds. At the inferno’s base was the wreckage of a campsite. Bodies were scattered around, weapons abandoned where they had fallen. What tents there had been were ablaze and there was no sign of life within the camp’s boundaries.

To the south of the burning tents and carts was another blackened site; it appeared to have been a town once, now sacked and destroyed. A single figure moved within that wreckage, loading a handcart. He limped badly, his left leg injured, and his movements hampered by his injured shoulder, wrapped in a rough bandage. As he turned and grasped the handles, hauling the cart towards the south west, it was possible to see into the cart; a backpack lay at one end and beside it three bundles, wrapped in rough woolen blankets; they were staggered in size, the largest taking up much of the cart’s length, the smallest no bigger than the backpack.

 

* * *

 

Sirius walked without stopping, steering always towards the distant hills. Nothing bothered him, the cart rumbling behind. He was numb in body and soul, not caring what happened, almost hoping for something to kill him.

He slogged his way up a slope as the sun slid towards the horizon, the wheels of the cart bumping over loose rocks and shale. Exhausted, he finally dragged the cart off the path to an area that was large and flat. Back to the north the path he had walked could be seen, leading away through the hills; to the south the path continued uphill and ended in a cave entrance. There were low hills on both sides of the path covered in scrubby grass that swayed in the breeze. It was secluded and quiet, the sort of place that Marion had always wanted to find and settle in, if the world had been conducive to living out in the wilds.

Before night fell completely he had hauled the cart up the tallest of the slopes; the view was spectacular, looking out across miles of rolling hills, the sinking sun lighting it up and creating a breathtaking panorama of light and shade. In this quiet corner of the country it was possible to forget that the world was an almost lifeless husk. He held Dora’s wrapped body in his arms, Marion and Harry on either side of him, and watched the sun be swallowed by the hills, the last light of the day bathing his face in a warm orange glow, that slowly bled into magenta, blue, then purple. As the giant star vanished, leaving little more than a thin glow on the hilltops, a thousand more appeared all around, shining brightly in the black.

He sat, describing the aching beauty of the night sky, pointing out the few constellations he knew and making up funny names for the others. He told the story of the Marauders, embellishing the details in the ridiculous way that had always made Harry laugh. The boy knew the story by heart and had always corrected him whenever he went too far over the top. He spoke to Marion, wished for more time to have known and loved her, to have grown old with her. Deep into the night he talked, until sleep overcame him; he lay on the hilltop, holding them close, his throat hoarse and his face and beard wet with tears.


	10. Dead Seeds

  **Chapter 9 - Dead Seeds**

  

_You will not comprehend,_

_Or find words that will describe_

_The will of God and men,_

_Who tell you why someone died_

**~Lamb of God~**

 

**Mendip Hills, Somerset - 2236**

 

“I’M sorry.” Hermione blinked back her tears as she held Sirius close, the older man's head on her shoulder. She squeezed him tightly. “God's, Sirius, I am so, so sorry. I had no idea… if I had known I wouldn't have…”

“It's okay, Hermione,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I haven't talked about it to anyone before, so it overwhelmed me a little. I'm okay now.” He patted her on the shoulder and pulled away.

Hermione let him go, reluctantly, sure that he needed the comfort. She hastily wiped her eyes and looked around at the three small markers, in the centre of the hilltop. They had been sat there for a while as Sirius had told his tale, his initial anger giving way to melancholy as he talked. The new day was now threatening the horizon and the tops of the hills were sparkling with fire.

“It seems so unfair.”

“Yeah, but it was good while it lasted. Marion was great, you'd have liked her, I'm sure. She was smart, funny, a bit bossy at times.” He grinned at Hermione's amused frown. “Ah, she was so caring too, enough to pull a complete stranger out of London and nurse them back to health. I'm sure it wasn't all to do with my rugged good looks.”

“Though I'm sure that helped,” she said with a grin, patting him on the leg.

“Yeah, I was a handsome devil, back in the day, wasn't I?” Laying back he gazed at the lightening sky. “She always loved the sunset and the dawn; they were times to reflect on what had passed and what was to come, she said. 'If you take the time to truly appreciate what you achieved today, it helps you to prepare for all the great things you will do tomorrow.’”

“You really found happiness then?”

“For a long time, yes. It was the longest period of my life where I have been truly happy. School was great, but my home life was terrible. After we left Hogwarts… everything kinda went downhill: James and Lily, Azkaban, a fugitive from the Ministry, then the war. Here... it's the first time in my life I truly got to live.”

“I'm sorry it didn't last.”

“It didn't last long enough, no, but I got to love, to have children, which I never thought I would.”

“Harry sounds like he was a great kid.”

“Oh, he was,” Sirius said with a large smile, “so much like his mum; kind and intelligent, thoughtful and affectionate. And a bit like me; ready for mischief and pranks. Dora was a little ray of sunshine too, so content and alert. Everything was new and fascinating to her, and her big eyes missed nothing.”

“I never thought of you wanting children, Sirius”, Hermione said with a smile.

He gave a bark of laughter. “You and me both! It wasn't until I was faced with unending darkness that the thought actually came to me. When I realised that I wanted it it became even more important to get away, to try and get home again. I was just lucky to meet Marion when I did.” They sat companionably for a bit longer before Sirius spoke again. “So, tell me what I missed! Shouldn’t take as long, seeing as it’s only been eight years for you! How’s my Godson? And Moony! Did Tonks finally tell him? I’m going to guess You-Know-Who was taken down.”

Hermione stammered over her words, his excited face and desire for news breaking her heart. “Well, yes… Voldemort is dead… there was a big battle at Hogwarts. He and Harry duelled in the Great Hall… he wouldn’t let anyone else battle him, said it was his fight, he had to do it…”

“Yeah, I figured Dumbledore would push him towards that. Damn that man, Harry was too young for such a responsibility. I guess the old codger is still trying to pull the boy’s strings? Never could leave well enough alone.”

“He’s… well, Dumbledore’s dead, Sirius. Uh… Snape… Snape killed him…”

“WHAT?!” Sirius surged to his feet, pacing. “That lying, sneaking, double-crossing son of a bitch!! I KNEW he couldn’t be trusted! Snivellus was always trying to get up snake face’s arse...”

“Sirius… please! Let me... I have to tell you about the war, and… and it’s not all good news, so you had better sit down again.“ She sighed heavily, knowing that what she had to say was going to hurt the Marauder terribly.

“Who else died?” He had settled down again, but was now tense and worried.

Hermione searched his eyes, steeling herself. She saw the worry in them, and felt her own mist up as she chose her next words. “Sirius… I’m so sorry…”

“Just tell me.” The wizard bit off each word, fear twisting his gut.

So Hermione spoke, told him everything that had happened since the battle in the Department of Mysteries; the disappearances, deaths, murders; the discovery of Voldemort’s Horcruxes and Dumbledore’s plan to find and destroy them; his death at Snape’s hands; Remus and Tonk’s wedding (“Finally!” Sirius declared); Regulus’ defection and betrayal of Voldemort; Mad-Eye’s death; Voldemort’s takeover of the Ministry and the plan to eliminate Muggleborns; Hermione, Ron, and Harry’s decision to find the Horcruxes alone and complete Dumbledore’s scheme (“You realise that’s probably what that old puppet master wanted?” Sirius said with a bitter smile).

When she reached the Battle for Hogwarts she stopped, hesitant to continue. The new day sun bathed their faces in warm light, but the tension had not fully left Sirius.

“Who died, Hermione.”

Closing her eyes she swallowed hard. “Remus,” she whispered. Tears spilled down her cheeks as Sirius dropped to his knees, head in his hands. “Tonks… Fred… Colin Creevy. Fifty witches and wizards died in all, defending Hogwarts. Snape died too.” She frowned at Sirius as he scoffed under his breath. “He was a hero, Sirius, I promise you that. Everything he did… what he went through… he was always on our side!

“It’s not perfect yet. It’s more peaceful, and people are trying to rebuild… but some wounds can never truly heal.”

“My Godson,” Sirius said. “The fact that he was walking round as a living Horcrux for that maniac for years… How was he afterwards?”

She made a noise, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “He was… different. Gods, we all were! Being a Horcrux really messed with him, changed him in more ways than any of us had expected. He was angry, liable to lash out with violence, not just verbally. Ron tried to help him, but even he couldn’t talk him round when he was in one of those moods.”

“And what about you?”

“Me? I was…” She sighed, resting her head on her knees. “I was as fucked up as he was.”

 

* * *

 

“When the war ended, everyone wanted to get back to normal, as quickly as possible. Ron and I were together for a while, but my temper was even worse than his… He used to get annoyed, sulk for a bit, but he would always apologise. Me? I would get angry, take it out on him no matter who was at fault... sometimes I was violent. It… it drove us apart eventually. We were still friends, but it was obvious that we would never be able to deal with our pain whilst we were together.

He took the help that was available to him; his family, St Mungo’s healers, even visited a Muggle therapist! That was interesting! He spoke openly about his feelings, took on board advice that was given to him. He was able to heal. He came out of it relatively unscathed; stronger almost.

He and Harry had always wanted to be Aurors and they almost dropped into the job, thanks to their War Hero status. Ron thrived, the challenge also helping him to move on past the horror of the war. Harry seemed to do well too, but inside he was a mess. People wanted to help him but he just wanted to forget and buried everything deep inside. It started to eat away at him.

I know this… because… I… I didn’t bother to get the help I needed either. I pulled away from my friends, despite Ron’s efforts to keep us all together, be an anchor for the pair of us. I think his success in moving on just pissed me off: how could he be fine, when Harry and I were so fucked?

Harry and I… we gravitated towards each other… the darkness and pain inside just… clicked. It was not what you would call a ‘healthy relationship’. Parts of it were good, and when it was good it was great, you know. Really, really good!

But the bad parts… they were awful; we argued, shouted, hit each other. Just let all that repressed anger and hurt out and used it against each other. But there was always more anger inside… more pain, hurt… It was never ending.

I knew things had to change, but Harry was the only thing I had in the world, the only person who understood me. He was also the person who sent me to St Mungo’s several times with broken bones and cuts. The nurses knew the truth, obviously; they’re not stupid, but I never admitted what had happened. We had to avoid our friends so many times...

Eventually, when things had been good for a while between us, I convinced Harry to have friends over. Problem was that Harry had got into a fight with his boss, earlier that day, and had been drinking heavily. He had been suspended from duty too. It was… not a good night.

I knew I had to get away from him, I was scared he would kill me! But at the same time, I couldn’t imagine my life without him in it.

It was Luna that convinced me. She knelt at my side, talking to me, while Harry and the others yelled at each other. She told me everything I already knew: this relationship was not helping either of us, it had to end. She asked me if I wanted to change my life, to get away from him and be able to _stay_ away. I told her I just wanted a normal life again, like before this, before the war; to feel alive again. She asked… ‘what do you think it will take to get away from him?’ The first thing that came into my head was that one of us would have to be dead… I could see no other way! If we were still able to contact each other we would find our way back together, no matter how awful things got… and one of us would end up dead either way.

Luna just smiled and asked me if I trusted her to do what was right to save me. I wondered why not both of us, why just me? But I nodded anyway.

Everyone left after that, I made them leave… something told me that.. that it would all be okay, that Luna had a plan…

Harry and I fought afterwards, a bad one. He seemed to get worse, spiral downwards; more anger, more violence. He got wind that Luna had spoken to me, that we had been talking via owl. He and Seamus, Luna’s boyfriend, got into a fight… Seamus ended up in the hospital and I thought that Luna had abandoned me.

But she hadn’t. She came through, but not in the way I had hoped, not how I had expected.

Harry nearly killed me on the last night. We fought like we never had before. There was blood, broken glass and furniture. I know my arm was broken and I was bleeding to death. I knew I was going to die…

Then I woke up… I was in Malfoy Manor, battered and bruised, but still alive. The Malfoys’ personal physician healed me and I spent a fortnight there, in isolation. They refused to tell me what was happening in the world, how I got there, what had happened to Harry.

I found out, much too late, that Lucius had called in every favour he still had available in order to get Harry convicted by the Wizengamot for my murder. He was the last person to… to receive the Dementor’s Kiss…

I’m so sorry, Sirius… he’s gone…

 

* * *

 

**Azkaban Prison, North Sea - September 2004**

 

Deep within the prison the only sound was the drip of water--salt water from outside, working its way through the rocks. The darkness was near total this far down into the foundations of the island, the quiet a smothering blanket to any hope of release. Down here there was only the steady drip to mark time’s unrelenting passage. That and the occasional scream of despair.

A dishevelled figure stared through the bars of his cell. He had given up trying to see anything, his eyes unable to penetrate the darkness. His mind conjured up faces in the darkness though: the accusatory, menacing faces looked on with judgement. He had no idea how long he had been there, with little food and water to sustain him, but eventually there was a light, coming closer. The ball of light floated at head height, burning his eyes. He shielded his face, looking away until he felt his eyes start to adjust. When he looked back he could make out a tall man, walking towards his cell.

He had a visitor.

Their robes blended with the darkness, making them merely a head floating in midair, blond hair hanging to his shoulders. His aristocratically handsome features were held in an expression of distaste at whatever he was stepping in, his brightly glowing wand held to one side.

Closer now, the prisoner was able to make out another figure, robes rendering them almost invisible in the man’s shadow; they clung to his side, as if scared to be left alone down here. The prisoner pulled himself to his feet, feeling his legs tremble under him. He clutched the bars to steady himself as Lucius Malfoy spoke briefly to his companion before stepping back. With a flick of his wand Lucius sent the little ball of light upwards and it hung, suspended over the cell, illuminating the area with a pale light.

The smaller figure stepped forward hesitantly and lowered their hood. The blond hair was bright in the reflected light of the glowing orb and the figure’s pointed features, so similar to his father’s, caused a surge of anger in the incarcerated man. With a sigh, Draco Malfoy confronted Harry Potter, the bars of the cell separating them. Draco’s usual sneer was strangely absent.

“What the fuck do you want, ferret?” spat Harry, “come to gloat?”

“Harry…” Draco whispered, his voice cracking. “Harry, I’m so sorry it happened like this!” There were tears in his eyes as he took a step forward, hands lifting as if to hold Harry’s, but Lucius thrust his cane between them, pulling his son back.

“Don’t touch him. It is best to leave things as they are and just say your goodbyes,” he said. His voice was bored, but there was a malevolent light in his eyes. “He is getting Kissed in less than an hour and I don’t think we want to be around when that happens, do we?”

The capital ‘K’ was almost audible and it caused Harry’s legs to weaken again.

“What the hell is this?” he hissed, confused and scared by the strange interaction. “Some sort of sick joke?”

Draco shuddered, looking up at Lucius, “I didn’t want it to be like this… really I didn’t.” His face was one of true sorrow, as if Harry’s incarceration and imminent demise was a personal tragedy.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Harry asked, his voice hoarse with a creeping horror.

“This, Mr Potter, is the end game, as it were,” declared Lucius, looking down his nose, with the familiar, disparaging sneer. “Your days of hurting people are done. All of the wizarding world knows what you have become; little more than a common bully, much like the cousin you once had, amusingly.”

Harry wasn’t listening, staring at Draco; only it _wasn’t_ Draco, he knew that now. There was no sneer, no arrogant posturing. He was sorrowful about Harry, clutching onto Lucius’ arm like a lifeline, barely able to stand. “Who are you?” he whispered, fearfully.

“Someone who’s life you nearly destroyed,” Lucius said with a tight smile. “I must say, Miss Lovegood is quite the clever little witch, Mr Potter. Cleverer than I could have given her credit for, considering her father.”

“Luna?” Harry asked, staring in shock and confusion at ‘Draco’

“No, Potter, this isn’t Miss Lovegood,” Lucius laughed, derisively. “She is at her home, nursing Mr Finnigan back to health. She is mourning the loss of her friend, of course, but she was very busy these last few weeks, making sure that you were dealt with properly.”

“Cut the crap, Malfoy! Just tell me what the fuck you are talking about!?” Harry yelled, banging the bars of his cell with an open hand.

“You always managed to keep a strangle hold on Miss Granger,” Lucius said, completely unfazed by Harry’s outburst, calmly checking his perfectly manicured nails. “She wanted to escape, but kept finding herself drawn back to you by your threats to her friends, to her family. You would never let her go, even though you knew you would eventually kill her. So her friends did what had to be done; Miss Lovegood came up with the beginnings of the plan and Mr Longbottom, Miss Weasley and yours truly… Well, we played our parts.” Lucius brushed some imaginary dust from his shoulder while Draco continued to sob quietly at his side. “That night, the night you beat Hermione for the last time… you made sure you did a good job didn’t you,” Lucius spat. ”You broke her arm and her leg, fractured her skull and punctured a lung.”

“I didn’t do it… I… didn’t _want_ to do it...” Harry shook his head, trying to clear his mind from the fog that seemed to fill it. “I don’t know what happened…”

“Then, much like a common Muggle villain, allow me to reveal the dastardly plot!”

Draco gave a whimper and sank to the stone floor, his face in his hands now, as if he couldn’t bear to hear the details. Lucius cast a single glance down at him, a momentary flicker of sympathy in his eyes before they hardened and he returned his gaze to Harry. “After beating Hermione to within an inch of her life you prepared to set the house on fire. You were, however, stunned by Miss Weasley and, with Mr Longbottom’s help, brought to me.”

A vague recollection of the confrontation flickered to life in a corner of Harry’s brain; an image of a woman stood on the pavement, the moonlight bright above her, her wand pointed at him.

Lucius continued speaking, seemingly enjoying himself. “I placed you under the Imperius curse with your own wand and made you dig up some unknown Muggle from a distant cemetery. Your wand was then used to create an Inferius. Stained as my soul already is, I couldn’t see any of Miss Granger’s friends similarly tainted, so I did the deed myself. and destroyed the evidence.”

Harry was horrified; he had been charged with murdering Hermione, creating an Inferius, and hiding her away for his own sick desires. Hermione’s body had never been found. Lucius had presented evidence that had even convinced Harry that he had done this! The whole Wizarding world thought him a monster and now he was finding that he hadn’t done half of it.

“Miss Lovegood, in the meantime, removed Miss Granger to Malfoy Manor where my personal medi-wizard spent several weeks nursing her back to health. You and I returned to Hambledon Crescent, and your wand was used to set the house ablaze. Miss Granger’s wand was then used to remove your memory of our little side trip and all that had occurred. To all intents and purposes it would appear to the Aurors that you had killed Miss Granger, raised her corpse and hidden it, then returned to burn the evidence.”

Harry slumped to the floor, hands gripping the bars. He had barely been able to remember anything that had happened that night. The horror of being outside when the flames had consumed the house had been too much; when he had tried to run in some Muggles had stopped him.

“There appears to be something going on in your mind, Mr Potter,” Lucius said with another sneer. “I encountered something unexpected when looking inside your head, some kind of defect, perhaps? Maybe your time carrying a shard of the Dark Lord’s soul did more harm than the great Dumbledore could have predicted. Whatever it was, it had control of you and was growing stronger by the day. Whether you are guilty of murder or not, you are not safe to be around. Perhaps if you had reached out for help at the beginning it might have been found and dealt with… now though, it serves my needs that you be permanently removed from society.”

Harry looked up at Lucius, thinking about the voice in his mind, the one that had helped him to see what had to be done. It had been quiet of late, leaving him to his thoughts. Had it been Voldemort? It couldn’t be… that soul fragment had been destroyed… hadn’t it?

Lucius looked down his nose, into the bright green, frightened eyes. “This was all Miss Lovegood’s plan, I was merely to be the vessel through which the deeds were carried out, so the conspirators’ wands remained free of guilt.. Quite, quite brilliant. Miss Lovegood is on par with myself, when it comes to dark genius, even if I do say so myself.” Lucius leant in closer, enjoying Harry’s discomfort. “Your wand did the vital deeds, Mr Potter; the fire, the Imperius curse, the inferius. Your violent behaviour in the recent past helped to confirm your guilt to the wizarding world. All it took was a little nudge from myself. I had to cash in a number of debts that were owed to me to secure a place at the trial as prosecution, but I think I did such a good job on this one I might be asked back again.”

Draco continued to cry, quietly to himself on the floor, moaning, “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Harry ignored him, instead focusing on Lucius “But-but, the trial… Luna, Neville… they all spoke under Veritaserum…”

“Another memory charm, my dear Mr Potter. When your former friends were on the stand they had no recollection of the events of that night. They each believed that they were home with their loved ones.”

All of the fight left Harry then. It had all been staged, planned out in advance; his guilt had been proved... framed for Hermione’s murder.

But she _wasn’t_ dead. His eyes found Draco’s and the blond man flinched under his scrutiny. Draco’s hair was no longer completely blond – shades of brown had started to bleed into it.

“Come, my dear,” said Lucius, also noticing the change. “We had best go. You will need another dose before we leave. The wizarding world is convinced that you are dead and that must continue. It would not do to be seen, alive and well, in public. Goodbye, Harry Potter,” he said, with an absent wave of his hand, starting the walk away.

“Hermione?” Harry whispered, staring at Draco.

The hair was now shoulder length and mousy-brown, bushy and untamed. The pointed features had softened to look more feminine. The figure in front of Harry gave a shudder and gasped as the last of the transformation completed.

Hermione gave a sorrowful sniff and nodded sadly, biting her lip.

“Why?”

“I tried to leave you so many times... but at the same time, I didn’t want to lose you. We were both insane to keep it going, we were terrible together. You hurt me so badly… you kept hurting me, Harry, and I had nowhere else to go. I couldn’t live like that anymore.

“After Ron and I split up, my anger and pain found its equal in you. We were both so angry, so scarred from the war. Ron couldn’t handle it… you could.” Hermione bowed her head, talking to her feet. “But then things went wrong… it’s like our desire to fight and let out our anger got twisted into a sick need. It’s awful but, for a time, I needed the fights to keep me feeling human.” She looked up, her eyes shining in the light that hovered above their head. “Every lie you fed me kept me together, kept us strong… even though we spent most of the time cleaning up the breakages from our fights.”

“They’re going to kill me,” he whispered, hoping that she was here to help him.

“I wish it didn’t have to be like this, Harry. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have chosen this. I had no idea...” Harry reached out through the bars, his vain hope starting to die as Hermione stepped away, avoiding his outstretched hand. Her voice was quiet and sad as she spoke again. “I did love you, Harry. Truly I did. We never stood a chance. Maybe we _are_ what happens when two natural disasters meet, like you said.”

She pulled a vial of a softly glowing silver potion from inside her robe, and took a gulp of it. As it took hold her features began to shift again, her free hand raising her hood to cover her hair, platinum blond once more.

“Hermione,” Harry called, arms outstretched.

“I always wanted to believe you when you said you wouldn’t hurt me again… but I always knew it was a lie. I used to love the way you lied to me. It made me feel wanted. I’m so sorry! Goodbye, Harry.” Her words broke into a sob as she walked quickly, reaching out and clutching Lucius’ arm for support as her legs faltered. Lucius gave a flick of his wand and the ball of light sped towards him, settling on the tip once more.

“Hermione!” Harry’s voice was pleading, a desperate edge to it now. “Please don’t do this!”

She didn’t look back as the pair of them walked up the dark corridor, taking the only light with them.

“Get back here!” he roared, that familiar anger surging, something insidious rippling through his mind, demanding he get hold of her, crush her. “You’re nothing without me! You’ll always be Malfoy’s fucking bitch, stuck in his pocket! You fucking stupid woman, you’ll end up dead too and all of this would have been a waste!” The presence left him again, and his voice broke with sudden terror, loss and heartbreak. “Don’t leave me!! Hermione, I’m sorry!”

The pair turned the corner, the last speck of light vanishing with them, leaving Harry in total darkness.

“Please! Please don’t leave me here!!” The darkness pressed around him, a weight against his mind, bringing with it the feeling of despair and a bone numbing cold. “HERMIONE!!”

A familiar feeling crept over him… like all the happiness in the world was being leached away.

“Please… no…” His voice was nothing but a whimper now. Something moved in the shadows, coming closer. He tried to summon up a happy memory, finding them like smoke, slipping through his fingers. “Expecto… Patronum…” he muttered through stiff, cold lips.

No wand. No light. No hope.

Harry began to scream, but there was no-one to answer his cries. There was just a rattling breath in the dark.

 

* * *

 

**Mendip Hills, Somerset - 2236**

 

Hermione fell silent at last, her throat sore, her heart aching with pain and sorrow. Sirius stood away from her, staring into the rising sun, arms folded, silent.

“Sirius…” she said, but he held out a hand, silencing her. Every line of his body radiated anger and she subsided, cowed by it.

Eventually he spoke, and he seemed to be wrestling with his emotions. “I don't blame you, Hermione. As hard as it may be to believe, I don't blame you. I am hurt, and I am angry… but I believe you when you say that this was not what you wanted. Others took the decision out of your hands. Malfoy, Lovegood… they did this to my Godson… they condemned him to death in that hell…”

She shook her head. “Not Luna! No matter what Lucius says, no matter how many times I have been over and over it, I _cannot_ believe that Luna wanted this!”

“I didn't know her as well as you did, but I knew her father. The family was always strange, with very bizarre ideas… but if you think this was not her plan, then I have to trust your judgement.” He sighed heavily. “Harry was right, I think. Or whatever was in his head was right. Malfoy did this to pull you into his scheme. And it worked, because here you are… stuck in this world, doing what he wanted.”

“I'm such a fool,” she whispered, head on her knees. “Lucius took my entire life away, made sure that I couldn't reveal myself without putting the others in danger… they would have gone to Azkaban for what happened.”

“And no doubt Malfoy would have squirmed out of it, the silver tongued snake! You were right, if I had still been there…”

“No, Sirius, no, I'm sorry I said that! I don't think anyone could have helped him by that point, it was just inevitable.”

He gave a quiet grunt of laughter, glancing at her. She blushed under the look and tilted her head questioningly. “You raged at me for staying in a shit situation, but you kept going back to an even worse one.”

Her blush spread, hot prickles of shame chasing across her skin. “I…” She let out a heavy sigh and stood. “I'm a hypocrite,” she said with a bitter laugh.

He smiled sadly, stepping forward and pulling her into a hug. “Yes, you are, my dear. We both are. I am sorry you went through this, Hermione.”

She hugged him back, the pair standing in the warm light and finding comfort in the others’ understanding and forgiveness.

Sirius suddenly stiffened in surprise, pulling away from her and looking around. “What's that?”

“What…? I don't hear anything?”

A tremor of magic was snaking through the wizard’s body, pulling and twisting around him, but not directed his way. Something big was coming!

Even Hermione felt it then, as the ground seemed to lurch, fear clutching her heart and a flash of heat washed over her. Her head spun and she clung to Sirius to stay upright. There was a crack of muted thunder and everything went suddenly silent.

Then the screaming started from inside the hut.

“Ysobel! Elias!” Hermione pushed away from Sirius, ignoring his shout of warning, the wizard struggling to keep up with his bad knee, as she ran towards the hut. Instinctively she ran through the minefield, somehow avoiding all of the traps, and burst through the metal door.

She quickly took in the scene; Sirius’ table shattered and broken in the centre, three people lying in a heap atop the remains; two held wands, pointing to the bedroom, where Elias stood in the doorway, rifle in hand, pointed at the trio. Three heads of hair ripped through Hermione's awareness; two platinum, one like fire, and she dove across the hut to shove the barrel of the rifle upwards as the muzzle flashed and roared.

“No, Elias! It's okay!” She turned back to the room, watching the three people climb unsteadily to their feet. “It's okay, they're my friends.”

The young boy lowered the gun, an arm wrapping around his sister's shaking body, comforting her as she cried.

“Her… Hermione?” The shaky voice came from the redhead, climbing to his feet unsteadily, his wand falling to the floor. “Bloody hell… how… wha…?”

She smiled, tears in her eyes, not caring in that moment for the how's and why’s, just  filled with a surge of emotion at seeing him again. “Hello, Ron.”

She rushed to the stunned wizard, who wrapped his strong arms around her and crushed her to him, breathing raggedly as the emotion got to him. “You're alive! I can't believe you're alive!” He pulled away, held her at arm's length, searching her face for a moment as she wiped tears from her face. He pulled her back to him, as if he was never going to let go.

“Ron, you're squashing me,” she laughed, but refusing to release him. “I never thought I’d see you again!”

Eventually they parted, Ron's face split in a wide grin. He felt like the top of his head could fall off he was so happy. “Luna! Draco! She's alive!”

Hermione's arms were then filled with the small form of Luna, the Ravenclaw showing more emotion than Hermione had ever seen before. The bushy haired witch lost herself in the moment, refusing to think about it too much, to worry about the past. She just enjoyed the feeling of having her friends close, pulling Ron in again.

Draco stood back, brushing himself off and trying to remain aloof from the reunion, but even he cracked a small smile at her when she glanced at him. “Granger,” he drawled. “Good to see you.”

She pulled herself away from Ron and Luna and walked over to the blond wizard, searching his face for something. “Good to see you too, ferret.”

He gave a grunt of laughter and pulled her into an embrace. “No,” he whispered in her ear, “I haven't told them anything.”

She nodded into his shoulder, understanding.

 

* * *

 

**Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire – 2004**

 

“There is no guarantee that going will prevent _that_ ,” the stern man said, jabbing a finger at the burnt corpse lying in the small anteroom of Malfoy Manor. “If anything it will _ensure_ it happens!”

“I can’t sit back and do nothing, father. The body arrived this morning and we’ve already spent the best part of the day getting ready!” Draco hissed, keeping his voice pitched low so it did not carry to where Luna and Ron were quietly talking.

“If doing nothing would stop you from dying, then I would highly recommend that you do nothing!”

“Father… she needs our help! Why else would...”

“Enough, Draco! A couple of well placed memory charms will deal with this and…”

“I do not think it wise to pile another memory charm onto Luna, it will mess up the one she’s currently under! And Ron… I don’t think it will work on him.”

“Are you seriously trying to infer,” Lucius drawled, “that a _Weasley_ has a mind strong enough to resist _my_ magic?”

Draco looked over at Ron, eyes narrowed. “He’s not as weak as you might think.” The young man remembered the meeting in Garro’s basement, the strength he had felt in Ron’s eyes, the determination he had seen since then. There was something about this new Ron that still fascinated him.

“My dear boy,” Lucius sighed, noting the look, an air of disappointment in his voice, “a Weasley? _That_ Weasley?”

“What?” Draco shook himself, looking offended at Lucius’ tone. “Gods, no!”

“Then it must be the Lovegood girl that you are swooning over,” he sniffed. “Either way, I am not sure I approve…”

“Father!” A flush was creeping over the back of the young man’s neck.

“If you _must_ moon over one of them,” the older wizard said, with a sneer, “I suppose I would prefer it be the one that can provide grandchildren, no matter how flighty they may be...”

“Father, please! I am not mooning over either of them!”

“Whatever you wish to tell yourself in order to sleep at night, son. Just remember, your mother wants grandchildren, so by all means find pleasure where you will, but find a woman to breed with too. Maybe you could convince them to enter into an arrangement such as your aunt Bella had with your uncles...”

“Ready, Draco?” Luna called from across the room.

The young man kept his gaze averted for a moment till his emotions were under control, before nodding to the pretty blonde. He shouldered his bag and started to move away, but Lucius held onto his arm.

“If you were still underage I would simply bind you and lock you in your room… as we are several years past that I find myself unable to dissuade you from this course, clearly. The note makes it clear that Miss Granger finds herself in jeopardy, but please consider the consequences of the three of you going.” He looked pointedly at the body again. “This is a classic self-fulfilling prophecy; you go with a view to prevent that death, and your very being there will allow it to happen!”

“And if we _don't_ go…”

Lucius smiled tightly. “Maybe we get to see which timeline gets ripped apart…  ours, or your grandfather's. Maybe nothing happens, but you must do as you see best. You are not a child any longer.” He glanced at the burned body. “I’ll have to decide what to do with this… Just make sure you do not become it!”

“You know how Time-Turners work, as well as I. We cannot use them to change what has already happened. If this _is_ a causal loop...” Draco grimaced, considering that. He stepped back and held out his hand. “Goodbye, father. I consider this penance for my part in what we did to Hermione.”

Lucius looked at the proffered hand for a moment, considering. He glanced over to see that Luna and Ron were already heading for the door and were not looking.  He pulled his son into a tight embrace. “Find a way to come home, Draco. Your mother would never forgive me if you got yourself killed.”

Surprised, Draco hugged his father tightly. His father had never displayed affection for him when others had been present; to do so in front of Weasley and Lovegood was highly irregular. “Give mother my regards,” he said, quietly, stepping away, his throat feeling thick with emotion.

Lucius looked aloof once more, as if nothing unusual had happened. He nodded to his son. “I will. Take care of yourself.”

The young man turned to walk away before his father's voice stopped him again.

“Just remember, son; if those two find out about your involvement in Miss Granger’s… predicament, then I doubt it will go well for you. Keep that secret close, no matter what!”

With that he was gone, striding away without a backward glance.

 _All well and good_ , the young wizard thought, with a sour twist to his lips, _but that's going to be a lot more difficult face to face with her!”_


End file.
